Friday, January 30, 2015



Bell-crack cold a month now with no sign of snow.
Bushy squirrels mating in spider branches bare

as nails. Corpses arrive in crystal dawns:
slumped in a bus shelter, stretched out in a truck, curled

beneath charred junk in a vacant house set blazing.
Crosstown digging continues. Hardhats yellow and blue,

orange vests chirp a crayoned spring. Chipped manhole
covers glint beside access shafts steaming black.

Saturday, January 24, 2015



January morning. Turn a tap,
find a miracle. Ice-cold lake

tamed to fill my glass,
slaking my thirst. So cold, so sweet—

throat tissues quiver joyfully.    
To remain this alive                                   

all it would take
to be called crazy, beyond reach.