The organizer
Is a fool tilling parched soil
Until the rain comes.

That moment taut yet
yielding against his fingers
unlacing your shoe.

Machines for being
more efficiently alone:
progress, technically.

The irony of
the obvious: it is so
so easy to miss.

A bowl fills, timing
the timing mallet beats—gold
thin glistening leaves.

Flesh plumped soft in warm
bathwater, ripening peach
in an oval bowl.

Shrinking great heavens,
the Learn’d Astronomer holds
them close, dear, as friends.

Branches fall to twigs
weavers nest together in
song from a high branch.

Much to repent of,
much to be forgiven, and
also much cattle.

Ballots, petitions,
whatever—politics is
born by the body.

Couple hugging close
under a blue umbrella:
they seem like nice guys.

Values less than three
under a standard normal
should have tried harder.

I started writing
on a whim. Not strange, except
the whim was not mine.

Portraits arranged in
a window display faces
peering through faces.

Misread signs: “Falling
rocks”, “Push button for signal”,
“End construction”, “Bump”.

Shh. I’m not supposed
to tell: she was a princess
once upon a time.

Beneath a sidewalk
tree, I meet the young queen of
an enchanted wood.

A wise man plans for
a moment like this, and I
am without a plan.

a sudden bell rings
into lockered hallways flock
the chirps of new soles

Animal knowing
dissolving good and evil—
an old snakeskin shed.

Vanity shed, chase
after the garden breeze, trace
its serpentine path.

Long after the first
fall scrapes at tender skin, long
after innocence.

Streets full of mourners
hands up pleading for justice
and frightening cops.

Students at play with
their problems, a child’s surprise
lifts the birds to flight.

Strange reassurance,
so many fish in the sea,
not to be a catch.

Maybe money should
buy happiness. Its lack can
buy lots of sorrows.

One plus e to the
negative i times π is
equal to zero.

While it’s not pleasant,
being a disappointment,
it is familiar.

To love what was is
as true, as real, as certain,
as hopeful as death.

The perfect victim:
the victim who fails to be
the perfect victim.

To the extent that
happiness can be bought, yes
money’s just the thing.