Tent at Sequim Bay
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.
Morning light
Depth of the goodness
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
Wood
Thirst quencher powder
Some of the best poets are in advertising
Dent I made in the world’s armor
Heineken
Crystals, hoping
When is it water and
when is it drop, cry, ache
or bitter rebuke?
Cloister walk
Utrecht Journal 