Sleep shredded, I tumbleinto action, an anxious preambleto a list of half-assed tasks,open the blinds and pour coffeeinto a fragile cup, pardonthe earwig skulking along the sill,and stare at the sunrise as if lightmight save a wounded world whileIsrael and Gaza slouch toward war.Sorrow makes me retune the newsto classic choices that lighten me,despite hearing…

Pull one corner of the blanket,another wrinkle rises.The cat has picked silk flowers.I tuck them back into their basket,think of linden trees in bloom.Under the trees are bees.Sip Tao with my coffee,cat, bees, and trees.

Is a poem like a hat?It fits the brain, thatword hoarder meantto forestall languagerun amok. Word silageis not meant to breakthe free lines we sweat,puffing and wranglingwords into silos, whilefree-range writersallow beastly verbsto escape chain-link orpicket fences and dareus to let loose what’swaiting under our lids.

An army of issuesin drab uniform–thud of a parade,one event like the other.No breaking ranks, no musicworth marching to. I would ratherdance, lift against gravity, butI stand on the curb of hours trudging by, eyes right,shoes well laced but tight.Cliche becomes a verb.I would rather dance,lift against gravity,shake off ennui, be a birdor ballerina on…

An excess of books in the room,the heft of words, tooth of paper thirsty for ink.Each one has a spine and a message.Someone said yes, let’s print it,and someone cut paper. Other handsmade a cover, like a door with no lock,a rectangle where words party or complain,lie, or collude. I cannot discard a book,be it…