Dance of Five


They stand, a dole

waiting for take off;


five in side light

learning how to flock—


a rise on their skin

answers movement


on each current,

responsive flight,


until one leads a dive,

an unexpected


bank out far,

leaving forms


of four others

still in shadow.



Flash Board II



C11 …….

I exercise at the wayside, pacing

stationary on call—there was gunfire, and

yellow boxcars, delineated, this year

there must be a lull in the juniper;

in season I hear my name scratch like a quill,

a  mantra lying to be helped (it’s just an inkling),

there was an uneasy reliance in telegraphs.


B2 …….

January treads in the owlry, fleeting

decisions, her gut wrenched—

the old school square’s hightower

bell tones exercise for apathy,

buys everyone drinks. Us evidendly

turned on by argument. Joyce calls

revered and livid.


A4 …….

This is for you, it can give you

the support you deserve—

a nearing pink tender swerve

that gathers diagonally like roots

hit loose from the sides

above you—a key snapped

in the door waits for projects.


E1 …….

Open Air Museum, cold-fought

candlewicks—a choked-out eulogy,

a mare in front of an ivy wall;

old England’s neighborhood scripture.

I place an origami swan beside the fence

hoping it feeds her dreams.


Terpsichore Recounts



First, there’s

  1. Time
  2. Space
  3. Weight

and      4.    Flow


then     5.    one quiet forward

  1. the response of ten till house
  2. the needle by your soles
  3. the rotating stage

I call it

  1. Movement theory
  2. How people sometimes forget how to use words
  3. The reliance on the bend of the legs to keep you down


how     12.  I could show you those moments

  1. The ones/fours
  2. I can turn them over for you like tall chapters
  3. I can leave the doors open
  4. I can even help count you in



Picturing a Belljar


Reach inside and pluck away

the vocal folds of the young translator;

she is the choral shaker and versed silencer,

perched to ask whether anyone else might be

here with her, others whose eyes can read the

language of inability like fingertips that point to

a girl who hangs from a tree. Tell me about doves,

little one. The word always taut in your hands. Only

in passing have you learned to verbalize it, thinking

backward for its root, the shape—before it dissipates

through to the roads below;  how it filters onto the

outstretched tongue of a girl who was told everything

must happen for a reason.


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