To possess an artist’s canvas
 I make space upon my wall
 and put up something crafted
 so well and is so bold
 it never gets old.
An artist has the whole world
 upon which to hang.
 Her most prized possession
  is new canvas
     or a person
     or a new tatoo.



Of this vast, radiant universe,
 I am of but one star.
Would the panoply be
 precious strewn
 were not each glimmer a signal of richness?
Of the multitude of criaturas on this round world,
 I am but one being.
Would humanity be
 a proud species
 were not each a beacon?
I count my cells,
        my breaths,
        my sunrises and sunsets,
        my schemes and dreams,
        my depths and feelings,
        my world that I take up
           and embroider.
Each human is created from other humans,
each star from stars.
I have craved to be more human, more starry.
I let it be
and the riches without
 are become within.
I beg no more.
Let me digest what I partake in.


Those indiscretions I was so careful to demur,
they are for the taking.
The paltry world bursts into color.
My so-called evil is humane life.
Everything is good like it should be.
My heart grows in this soil.
The evil name-calling drove me to starving;
I was desperate enough to take what ill-suited me.
What suits me is enough;
 perhaps everything
  in its own place.


Universe, thank you for the flash flood
 that canceled the trains
 that got me back to the metro
where I find myself
 as the sunlight streams
 sitting behind two young friends
one with a freckled shoulder
 bare but for straps, black chemise over scarlet bra,
 and a head whose mane is wild multi-colored orange,
and the other saying
 “I have seen a lot of things, too…”
 from the back of her neck’s tatoo.



Stepping into Rock Creek,
 the name becomes obvious.
I hop from slab to slab and wonder, but
 the journey reveals the river.
I perceive the small stones’ certainty.
I throw my weight into it
 and befriend gravity;
 rocks far off come within my leap.
I commit myself bodily over water;
 amid the momentum,
 I bound upon the unveiling path.

Too much to ask

I love you. I adore you. I admire you.
A selfish love,
if that.
for me your precious spark.
Would do things for it
without waiting to know whether
it’s suitable,
it’s tailored to your heart.
I dare not ask the measurements.
I imagine it boundless,
boundless enough to embrace this fondness.


The waves curl and break within my body,
 up my torso, up my shoulders, and
  burst into my throat,
incessant, insistent,
so constantly ardent.
Where to? Where to?
Where are you going?
Oh, where are you going?

The Love

If you allowed
 you to love yourself,

the rough diamonds
 languidly studding
  all the curves
 of your underground,

you would understand
 how silly it is to wish
 you were more.
You already are so much.

Witch’s Brew

When the sun colors the sky,
 the girl dons on her red frock
  embroidered with flowers,
  is bevied with joy,
  dancing in celebration,
 petal–eyelids open into awe.

With just the same heart

When the moon woos,
 our lady is wrapped
  in her black dress,
  bubbles and stews,
  cackling, agape at the universe,
 irises open to the multitude,
  cherishing each star a sun.


I know not how many tiers your fountain.
It proudly stands in the piazza.
All I have is my pitter–patter,
softly, gently,
hard to notice —
till drip and splash
and undulation,
over the edge and overflowing
over every lip.


That worst kind of love,
that listeth,
smiles anon,
does not scheme, expect, or devise,
is content merely to be.
Oh, this gets me nowhere,
is too patient,
has nothing to show for itself —
I cannot leverage you.


I sing to you, brass belle,
 deep, in your frequency,
 a joyful tone
till two smiling wench’s eyes
 blink knowingly, happily
 back at me.
Enthralled, you open
 your mouth and bless
 the reverberations with ethereal delight.
Us two laughing, broomless witches
 clasp hands in the wind
 and fly.