Poetry

It’s not the leather-smelling shelves at Hoglund’s / or the boots I haven’t learned to walk in.

'Outside Camilla' and 'Storm'

She asked when she could come to the hospital to see her new niece

I urge like a red lacquered / fingernail tapping a car / window, rat-tat-tat-ing, exclaiming / over there! faster than words

presume you bite a tomato the same way a man chomps an apple

These poems are not art / They are burial instructions

Here is what I know: silence has a sound.

look how the wet seeks the sand

Picasso’s eyes no longer saw for themselves

The April day scorns your true beauty.