In the middle of morningI sit in a small rectangle of music.It sings to me–no wires, no tubes. My clock has no hands.A candle winksin a glass sconce andbooks line up by the dozensin this room of ease and marvels.Yet if it all melts in fireor dies in flood or pandemic,I have lived in blind…

Let me savor the umamiof this succulent wordlike a baby’s first ice cream,no need to explain vanillamelting on the spoon.Let the syllables drip down my chinbefore an academic adult defines it,consigns it to my word hoard.Let embouchure meanAlakazam! One-two-three…a silver dollar plucked from my earand from my mouth a white dove.

American sentences roiled in Ginsberg’s bed,verbs and images, a sufficiency of lineshe hung like laundry drying in breezy air,the hot mangled sheets of strangersnot worth a penny in the morning.Word though leads on to word, and I have chosen darker ones, less traveled,to write down, trim, boil, scrape artichoke leaves,looking for a tender noun, an…

Help! There’s smoke in the house.Help me carry in these groceries.Help is on the way.I cannot help but wonderat the wonder of words,their pliability. Are they lonelyin the dictionary, cagedin tidy multi-meaning boxeswe call entries. Yet,no entry speaks its name,no pen invites the word outfor lunch or coffee. Poor, lonelylittle word, it needs voicesand a…

New thin slats at my window willcollect dust that I will ignore and if I dietoday, someone else will clean them,sort my books and coffee cups. I am onewith too many shoes, dishes, frown lines,too much music, too many old notebooks,too much ink and paper to outlast me.Someone may remember what paper mattersand erase my…