Poetry

Daumier’s feculent caricatures, A glossy nightmare behind the glass, Because the rows, the typed labels, The industrial panes are what we require To keep them from waking, speaking, Compelling us to stay

Deb, you told the principal I look disheveled. I appreciate the honesty. Stop telling people I remind you of a mop bucket. Honesty is nothing to sneeze at. You know I’ve always

My grandfather’s old Harvard chair sits bare in the basement of my mother’s house. A scuttle of dust rushes off when someone brushes by. On its back: the inlaid emblem of

Vortices of verse traverse the universe and traipse across the mind of my eye, intimating places I’d seen in sleepwalk. Reckoning with irreconcilable relativity, I seek the silhouette of a spitting image