Put it all in the air
and let it hang there,
our ball of broken dreams
and broken bones
Put it all in the air
and let it hang there,
our ball of broken dreams
and broken bones

I am now in a room where
my father is in a tent
at Sequim Bay.
He’s lit a fire and
his fingers move.
Their shadows are like strings
tied to the tent,
pulling it down.

When you live at the
depth of the goodness of life,
no skull will unsettle you,
but you’ll wonder at
the shape the good can take

Some of the best poets are in advertising

When is it water and
when is it drop, cry, ache
or bitter rebuke?