January 12, 2017

Here, the new world does not exist, lies somewhere

beyond the borders of vegetation, globed fruits:

grapes, melons, apples, the known demarcations.

Somewhere in Corsica, my ancestors

work the land, raise olives, picking them by hand

from twisted trees.  Time’s cartographer...

May 3, 2016

is a clothesline hanging

between two trees;

the words, hung by wooden

pegs, move with the wind.

Between the lines, punctuations

of iris, peonies, bleeding hearts,

and a meadow that stretches

as far as the pines.  It has been raining

all night.  Someone I once loved

appears in t...

March 5, 2016

My grandmother worked for Bonwit Teller’s; we grew up receiving

gifts wrapped in thick shiny paper sprigged with violets, satin ribbons,

didn’t know they were samples, or bonus gifts from cosmetics

after a promotion was over, or even from Filene’s Bargain Basement,

resurre...

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