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For all things have turned into words, tasteless, scentless,
Formless, sensationless, meaningless, even wingless.
Staying silent is all that is left then,
Or writing verses about writing poetry. As
A real poet ought to.
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Give me back my hands. Give me back the fields and how they tremble.
Skylark, skylark, the wind is with you. Sleep. And sails. And light.
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it’s not hard to detect
a counterfeit person
there’s nothing to see
when you hold him against the light
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she poured her beer on my head
when i tried to kiss the cross
above her low-cut dress –
i just wanted to touch my lips to
the open wound of christ on her
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walking is my speech
walking is my expression of love
walking – I fall in love and read
this city and
know it – not for long. I’m silent.
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Everything is heading towards resolution,
Most probably it will be atomic.
And there will be neither City,
Nor World,
Just a little baby tooth
In a tin box
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And the river, its fair banks defining,
connecting, place and time, places and times.
Me, here, now, I get the little-hairs-rising-feeling
about a life I haven’t lived, but might.
Poems from the poetry book "Be-hooved", University of Alaska Press, 2019
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driving back from the funeral, I understand
my father’s suit is worn, and will fade away
then, it’ll fit me just right
Poems form the poetry collection “Common Wheel”
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I am like an extended accent
along the shore of the Eastern lake
overgrown with grasses,
choking on consonants of mollusks
Poems from the poetry book “Pericón”
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but I would have liked to ask
what signs, what meanings (where)
were left in the material beyond bounds?
What kind of place (white like spring?)
is the earth of our misunderstanding?
Poems form the poetry collection “Ruptured Moonlight”
