From Inside Looking Out
From inside looking out
the moon seemed to me close enough to touch
like a dusty irradiated orange up there

asking me to pick it

but when I got to the porch
and then the street
I just looked silly reaching up and up like that,

trying in vain to pluck another self-told lie straight out of the sky.

A Man Who Writes Poetry
You think you want a man who writes poetry
But you really don’t.

You think you want a contemplative man
Who compares your belly to a bowl of fruit,
Your breasts to two clouds that fluff in the sky

But you really want a man with money in his pockets
And vague pleasantries that tumble from a mouth
That says more than his eyes can express.

You think you want a man who writes poetry
But you really don’t.

That middle-aged angst will overripen soon enough.
The tears are sweet for a little while
But in a matter of months you’ll be begging for a man

Who hides a single tear under each sleeve,
Makes his car payments early
And wants to take that vacation out West with you.

You think you want a man who writes poetry
But you really don’t.

There will come a time when you’ll read a poem he wrote
Long after he wrote it
And you won’t even remember you read it before

And he wrote it about you.

On The Other Side
Staring up at the tower,
Small in its shadow:
At the top of it is Christ’s cross.
The rain is gone now, but the clouds
And the scent of wetness remains.
All that is left now
Is to climb over the tower
Using eyes that see beyond seeing
To find that there is no love on the other side
Just as none exists on this side.
There are
Only more gray clouds, more sopping sand
And
One last sunset redder than blood.