I dug a hole in the ground to bury my doubts
near thin yellow bushes that die after five years.

Standing over my open pit, I shout questions.
They settle. I hear no response and cover them.

My fears are ten feet away, interred last weekend,
where the weeds are dense, bramble with long silver thorns.

I start to stack my sorrows for next week’s labor
beside brittle vines choking the memory stone.

— Published in “Narrative Northeast″



We walked to Brooklyn Flea—
the ramps are in season.

You bought the local chocolate,
a balance of salt and pungent,
but I like the blue tin,
bitter with chili oil.

its like pressing
your fingernails
into your palm
as a nurse draws blood—

the bitterness flows quickly on top of the heat.

I’ll buy some for next month.

— Published in “Rutherford Red Wheelbarrow # 7” (September 2014)