thirty four books I want to read
and a wooden flute, to learn on
a desk full of pens and paper
a computer to sit down to, a computer to carry in a bag, a computer for my pocket
warm clothes, dress clothes, business clothes, summer clothes
four cameras, some weights, a yoga mat
and another case of read and unread books
camping stuff, dancing stuff, writing stuff
one, no two bottles of whiskey
a bed, drawers for more clothes
a couple of watches, cases for my glasses
an ipod and speaker, a lamp, a box of letters from old lovers
some toys, a bunch of journals, some for stories, some for poetry, some for thoughts and feelings
toys, a drum, some props for costumes
jackets and robes, towels and sheets
two mirrors behind the door
I turn out the light, finally, reluctantly
illuminating my empty room


a breath of air
lifting this page ever so slightly
then leaving it to fall
the cat at my feet
rolling tummy up, eyes closed
the horn of the neighborhood grocery truck, some blocks away, announcing its arrival with “La Cucaracha”
more distant, and beneath children sounds, the ebbing and flowing hum of cars on streets all around
a family of parakeets sing the sun down, the sky a brilliant fading orange
I reach up and pull the light cord
and look at this page
blank (and a little too bright) except for the word
hours later, I surrender;
-the sparse page unyielding-
“i don’t know what this word means”

the daisy

i reach out, my hand stirring
a strange vision, rippling like
lace over lace over
colors i know but cannot see
; and
something of the daisy
(in you) around
you washed over me
like forgotten days in sunlight
then all the world grew still
as I watched you dance