Mirror Image

We found that bird, neck snapped and bloody on the deck under the window. Towers look like skies. you said gnawing on the end of a bone. The skin is the best part.

primary palette

I like the idea of limiting the number of words in a poetry collection in the way a painter limits a palette. A vocabulary made of basic words. Words repeating, showing up in multiple poems, shifting in meaning, standing in for complex thoughts, experiences, memories. Private metaphor. Memoir in code.

A spoon, a bird, a pie, a chesterfield.


A restaurant in an airport parking garage, ornate as a gilded jewelry box. Seats one. There is no need for a maître d’. The cook stands before a single flame, hands you a dish. It’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted and you have no one to describe it to.