Category Archives: 100 Poems

July 29

He read in places where birds assemble wind and storm a billion years of light cutting the round of a lime in two. It has always been true that his symbol is light. He can be found in shaded spaces under stone, ice, in the scatter of color in the beds after rain or the […]

July 28

One day the dictator happened by a window and saw all the women of the world seated on his lawn. The dictator asked would they share tea by the pond, by the pool, by that body he had yet to get to given the time, the demands of the job. One woman spoke for the […]

July 27

At the hostess’s party the women let go—in her absence— They made the house theirs, wresting it from its own, other order. They painted one wall black, took the joists down from the attic floor with reciprocating saws so that the dust from storage drifted onto a carpet retaining the smells of Afghani men smoking […]

July 26

There was an old woman who made Impatiens out of fire, stars from sugar cubes, and water from the gaiety of whales. She told me in a playful moment by the river, she just went with it, told me a story about a man with gum on his sole who stopped, wrenched up his shoe […]

July 25

Does the dusk Do the clouds Bleed The rose asked Its knifes held Against the open sky

July 24

We see wings brush the Milky Way’s back on a walk across the hill under a moonless sky and suddenly night turns on us like a stampede, a crash from all sides we take for danger. Rhinos from the bushes near the water, buffalo rushing from underground, armies on chariots swarming from the East, and […]

July 23

She told me she’d seen the stars collide and collect in a spectral petri dish. She said it was an image of the future, a vision that had come after the rains went still and the birds had rushed out of the East on a hot gray wind with the voice of two cracked violins […]

July 22

I just cut the grass trimmed, scuffled a bedfull of weeds how wet everything is the white roots the chocolate soil where worms twist at the sun when unearthed and the ground bees have laid their children for the year to come the swarms are now the best first of spring My knees are brown […]

July 21

Like the man who thought every phone might be ringing for him in Calvino’s traveler, I think that the colors of the world are all meant for (or trapped in) me. Rose and carmine and indigo detonating deep inside. How oil insinuates into engines, so lisianthus lubricates the rounds behind my purpling eyes, the curves […]

July 20

He should have told her that light is his symbol. He should have told her what stones say. He should have told her he’d carry her books, pack, charms. He should have told her his real name in the park where the trees grow like statues. He should have told her how he feared what […]

July 19

In a dream I saw umber birds inking like knife slices out of a rolling lowland. I hurried to them, approaching on the back of a seed that had raised me from the valley floor on a cool wind, an idea, a country emerging with sails from its cities, engine gears creaking. But when I […]

July 18

He did not lose his son. His son lost him, embellishing a face at other doors and windows, other elaborations shaped like moons or buttons watching him pass through sun, rain, and evening mist, a gray hand reaching from a door, like a wish. And: The stone had an idea about phases How one can […]

July 17

A man had an encounter with a stone. He told the stone a story. But the stone wasn’t a fan of riddles. So he broke the man’s foot. Then he broke the man’s head. Then he buried the man in a garden. It’s a good story, the stone said. About gardening, the man said.

July 16

We are made of light aspiring outward like the edge of night and day whose interstice is not the line but a circle you can carry and swing in your hand. Let the bear pass through. Like the death of things, the crow will disassemble into plurals and pass mostly quiet through the grass. and […]

July 15

She gathered all her new friends on the porch and served them lemonade in the chilled glasses with little lemon prints behind the water beads. The branches nearby clicked in the wind. The women laughed like men remembering the way they used to live before their children took them over and made them different, longer […]