the sky held the sun in one hand,
and cradled the moon in the other —
in those moments before dusk,
everything glistened and glowed.

maybe our differences,
our opposite personalities,
like the moon and the sun,
made what we had beautiful.



because you once said,
i am like a baby bird,
that i am fragile and easily

but that i will one day be
resilient enough to fly,
with my own two

but until i learn and grow,
under your wings i must
take shelter.

for your covering,
it keeps me

because under the shield of their mother bird’s wings, baby birds don’t need knowledge of what’s happening outside of them.
(because i don’t need to know the whole picture yet.)



Today I found something I scribbled in a notebook maybe a year ago. I’m not the biggest fan of the end, but thought I’d share:

because you linger in my mind like an autumn leaf clinging with childlike fingers to a tawny spine, or a memory, whose thought it so sublime and whips, that I’m afraid it will flutter passively away on the slightest of blustery fall afternoons // so if you would just let me rest in your shadow, in the cap of an acorn, blanketed in the morning fog and cobwebs, until the next breeze, take it all in, do as we please.



Writing Prompt 1: “What is your favorite work of art? What do you love about it?”


after the nighthawks have gone

after the nighthawks have gone
there are seven, maybe eight, stools
and bare countertop that remain.
a straw wrapper lies on the floor,
three grains of sugar are strewn
on the counter like long-parted islands.
(the counter is chipped in corners,
but no one has noticed for years).
a single fluorescent bulb shines,
but no one is inside, the door is locked.
yet the bulb shines.
like harbor lights on the abandoned pier
in Palm Beach in the dense fog of night.
like the street like on forty-eight street
as it approaches five in the afternoon.

what is it about these lights that draw men to them?
love, hope, vainglory?
longing, lust, loneliness?

perhaps men and tides are quite similar,
and the acidic flickering of such lights
is not to be temping at all,
but part of the night, the day,
and something less poetic then
a shuttered shop on a chilly, shadow-laden street.