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.

Now—right now!—be still.
Be silent. Let the leaves speak,
and forget these words.

Time marches on and
around in a circle, one
leg being longer.

Official reports
determined no victims were
harmed by the killing.

New York Times confirms
police shot and killed unarmed
young man, not angel.

Standing, she glows forth
warm summer sun. Ripe peaches
weigh the swaying boughs.

Exalt at spring birds—
warbling, dappled, graceful—but
remember the worms.

The yellow-sleeved girl
turns momentarily from
her page forever.

Wanting not to be
lonely, I have let someone
think too much of me.

Quiet starlit night:
Suddenly, a hundred geese
vee through the moonlight.

Captain, my Captain,
this April I am making
trout mask replicas.