Space

Westwood Hills Park Loop; Napa, CA. Image, my own. April 2026.

Jazz

jazz, how something
jazz
something so messy
so seemingly unkempt and
chaotic brings
jazz
something so messy
so unkempt and chaotic, disordered blooms
jazz
so unkempt and chaotic
brings subtle peace
jazz
brings calm clarity
to the mind
to the being
jazz

Napa Valley, CA. Image, my own. April 2026.

Lonely Place (II)

I’m still alone in my anxiety, in the pit of the stomach of the thing

Why does it take humans constant living to remind them that they
are alone and together all at the same time?

being alone
being lonely
being human

are they the same thing?

Am I still sitting at the table by myself?
Or is that just my childhood imagination talking?

What does it mean to be truly intimate with someone, in that you
you can call and text and still be alone

you can have sex and still be alone, still remain disconnected

you can be married to someone and still be walled out or wall

Maybe I’ve built too strong and well against vulnerability

The horns at sunset. Westwood Hills Park Loop; Napa, CA. Image, my own. April 2026.

Noted:
I noticed the quiet
omission of those three words
when you said goodbye

Eventide. Napa, CA. Image, my own. April 2026.

Space

What does it mean to need space, to take up space, to be in space
If we look at all of the bodies surrounding us, antithetical to room,
In definitions of space we might see blackness, bed covers, a field,
Yogic bodies in goddess pose, scientists from my planet on a vessel,
Artemis, a vehicle, the goddess of the hunt, she blasted them up into
The heavens, the dreams of generations of humans went with her
Astronauts in first grade classes from the sixties until that the final
Countdown from the Kennedy Space Center in twenty twenty-six
Imagined that moment, enraptured by the darkness, a new pitch and
Moment of aloneness, closeness to mortality like very few have lived
Our utter contrast, a bluegreenwhiteorb, pure pith and circumstance
Twelve months, our orbital timeline around the sun, twelve moons, of
Waxing and wanning, newing and fulling, shifting and pulling oceans
It’s hard to know what will come of this push and pull in the end

Wyeth grasses. Westwood Hills Park. Napa, CA. Image, my own. April 2026.

Angle

Little Rock Canyon Trail. Image, my own. 2026

Billie Holiday and a Constancy of Dishes

growing into what goodly work feels like, allowing

Billie Holiday to meet a Sunday afternoon, a moment to rest

sultry trumpet lines and mellow tenor sax vibratos curl

around the soft razz of her story, falling in sensual serenades from

her lips, tragedy, truth, the fact that things fall apart, and fall

together again all in one song, one heart, one lifetime

a slow, delicious meal simmering on the stove to be

shared with my dearest, a quick sear to seal in flavor

so as I wash these dishes, may I remember Brother Lawrence

1666 Carmelite monk whose work became to wash the

dishes– pots, pans, spoons, bowls– whose devotion

to paying mind and body to the menial task became

a meditation, a prayer, a conversation, an act of deep adoration

to the point of nourishing Brother Lawrence in joy

joy at the least of these, the insignificant existence of humans,

recorded as the stuff of worshipers, acolytes, viewers, and tourists

over the ages who watched Brother Lawrence wash, in soverignty,

dishes

every dish evidence that life was given, bread was broken, food and

tidying up became an act of physical communion

Little Rock Canyon. Image, my own. 2026

Dance

sometimes I’ve climbed back into the dress
I wore when we danced together for the last time

we inhabited two separate bodies, two separate lives, we danced with
all of our experiences swirling inside of us, there is seemingly nothing

that could save us from the next part of the dance. undone, again, I am
sad, it’s a different sadness, not the raw, aching fire of the first separation

not the low moaning tears of the days the boys had to leave to be with you
it’s a sadness more of recognition, of assent, nodding ‘yes’ to what was

and accepting what is, and allowing myself to still feel sad that I didn’t
know, could never have known, it would be our last dance

Utah Lake. Image, my own. 2026

A Certain Slant of Light

the clouds rise in great crescendos
thunderheads of nimbostratus, portent
like that mahler record of resurrection
nestled in the thrift store vinyl section
life and death and redemption
those rays of light we all see
which break through the somber
sky, a promise,
who knows the rules, who keeps them
when it comes to poetry, lightning
mercury, fate, spirit, a palantir

Iris, goddess of rainbows. Image, my own. 2026

Vast Expanse

Fish Springs National Wildlife Refuge, February 2026

Align

-In celebration of 
Planetary alignment 
And love and life

Sometimes, like today 
February 28th
All of the planets align

You commit to your
Own wild adventure, 
You  break sonnets 

Into sentences and 
Receive messages 
From the sea, the 

Oceans of desire 
Swell and calm
And swell again 

The foam of ancient 
Seabeds, laid down 
In marl of 

Seashells, an intimate 
Mixture of calcium
Carbonate and clay 

Prehistoric alluvials,
A vast bed under the 
Broad blue sky 

Where water, once 
Abundant, La Mer, is
Friable through fingers

The rise and fall
And rise of each breath
Rolls heavenward

Yet, now, all 
That undulates on
That vast range 

Are block horsts from
Earth’s basement,
Deepest oceans of

Molten waves, 
Mountains upon 
Mountains mirror 

Wave upon wave
The blue sky, Everything
Signifying everything 

The eons old lake, 
Long gone, becomes 
The background 

Of our days and 
Nights and days 
As the full moon

Wanes and waxes
Another quantum wave
Of space and time

Between Fish Springs Range and Thomas Range, Pony Express Trail

The Lonely Places (I)

I used to say that my family came from all the lonely places
That somehow, my diaspora got together and agreed to live
On vast plains of prairie, and in dry canyons and deserts
We moved with our own rhythm to the far north and
Set up tiny claims on sweeping vistas of the American
West, the lonely places– unwelcoming, sparsely inhabited

So as we drove yesterday across basin and range after
Basin and range, I could understand some of the longing
That knits the heart to space that confirms the lonely insides
Always looking out, through a window on the barren world
Where with delight a dusty coyote sprints across your path,
Downy woodpecker, her black mask, lights on a cottonwood branch,

There Earth’s bends, striations, upheavals, and rich history
Sit in blocks, and rocks, and mountains which carry our
Eyes beyond the present, forward and backward in time
Fox trots in and out of sage lanes and sand loops across the
Lonely, bereft, solo, alone, solitary, single, unaccompanied, one
Landscapes that require a yearning which cannot be quelled

Sevier Plateau, February 2026

Feminine

we are left fighting
against softness in a world
so desperate for peace

we’ve left her circles
behind to find that tech gods
of degradation

blight the entire
atmosphere, each system breeds
another fall and

trapped in arrogance
and ignorance we’re ripe for
tragedy, collapse

cycles of seasons
wind-songs and river beds all
speak her name, whisper

too soon, we sold her
sources, strength to greed-gutted
rulers, monsters, thieves

we are left fighting
for softness in a world
so desperate for peace

House Range, Pony Express Trail

Harvest

Timpanogos, Autumn 2025. Image, my own.

Autumn Pi

Rain on desert ears has the
Nostalgic ring of ancient
Canyons, striae revealed

In layers of eras, reality
Visible over eons where
Water knew its way.

Maybe we’ll wake
Tomorrow, the hot sun
Returned to its high autumn

Zenith, symptom of the
Sickness humans have
Inflicted on everything

Natural around them–
Trees, air, water, animals
Earth’s great oceans all

Poisoned with plastic,
Suffocated, hexed in
Chemicals, save us

From ourselves, our
Hubris and our short-
Sighted nature

Perhaps it is only the
Infinite that keeps me
Sane these days, makes

Me whole, returns me
To my place between
Stars and atomic particles

Sun-burnished sandstone and
Outer space, reminding me
With all our furious machinations

Good and ill, humans have never
Found a round number for Pi,
The circumference of the universe

“My Business is Circumference” Emily Dickinson

Season changing clouds, October 2025. Image, my own.

Plastic

Driving into the ever-early sunset,
East, city streets, wet from rain

moments ago, just passed,
In the waning light

Street lamps begin to wink on
A turkey vulture rides a thermal

High above the traffic light, black, 
Feathery, flighty, I’m surprised

To see such a bird here,
Metropoli, humanity, all scrummed

Together in ever-growing towers
Towns, I look away from the bird

To the arrowed light, dictating a
Turn, the bird takes another

Breeze, it’s moving on to
Other climes, no, there is

No bird. The black specter,
An airborne plastic bag

Autumn in the Wasatch Mountains, 2025. Image, my own.

Paper

A fearless paper
Advocate, let decay the very
Lines I hold so dear

Autumn in the Wasatch Mountains, 2025. Image, my own.

Montana

Absaroka Mountains, Paradise Valley, Montana. May 2025.

On Wednesdays

And sometimes, on Wednesdays, 
you feel altogether less than.
Less than creative. Less than
bright; less than enough. Still
there is this desire to burst some

seal in the universe to say what
you feel. And you determine
to send the man you love a letter
because you are also reminded
by your intro to writing classes

how powerful our interactions, 
entanglements with the natural
world really are. Reliving our
gorgeous weekend in Montana.
Wide skies, iridescent light. The river,

carving out its channel, hosting
bobbing rafts of geese, the
swift water constantly breathing,
caressing, quick-tickling its banks.
Feet, pinked, cold and smoothed

by silt and stones. The mule ears
sunshining in bunches on the
low slope of each sky-grazing
mountain range– Absaroka, Crazy, 
Gallatin, Tobacco Root– still white-

tipped with winter, now green-
black with pines, avalanche lines
and juicy jade undergrowth
all silently worshiping Spring,
new whorls of love made daily

Yellowstone River, Paradise Valley, Montana. May 2025.

Deluge

Spring, you may wander through my
soul in infinite spectacles of rebirth,
interrobangs of golden mule ears
apostrophes of purple monkshood,
little ellipsis of mountain service berries
punctuating each hillside and long
top-frothing grasses, mountain oceans
in growing breezes, a cloudy sky meant
to cast angles and halos, one
moment warm and the next a
whipping rain, a deluge,
steady then soft, pelting then gauze,
a corporeal mist clinging to river beds,
mountain roots and renewal

Peets Hill, Bozeman, Montana. May 2025.

Skin
shedding
morphing, learning,
lose, grow, shift, change
a year for becoming strong and centered
snake

Peets Hill, Bozeman, Montana. May 2025.


Blindness
absolute blindness
creates false hope, fists clenched and
clinging old, wet sand

Sight
when the grief subsides
the soul is filled with blinding
joy, internal sight

See
did you want to drive
your military complex
around on the street

Absaroka Range, Paradise Valley, Montana.