west of eden

on this side of the
prelude to spring, all of that
secret world is gone

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green jello

every year the dish looms before me on the thanksgiving buffet, its lurid contents lurking, watching for the next innocent plate to appear.

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the wild garden

all the flowers in the wild garden
have yielded their spirits to autumn’s chill
and become dry brown ghosts, their seeds
falling out of cracked heads and cones

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Baltimore

according to family lore
we own all of old Baltimore

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granny’s dollies

last thanksgiving granny gave me her dollies
we carefully lifted them from their wrappings
smoothed their skirts, their faces
said their names

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the woeful demise of sir launcelot de fenestrare

sir launcelot de fenestrare was a knight with a most haughty air his king he’d annoy — and the whole hoi polloi — with his long-nosed and steely-eyed stare so his brothers in arms had a thought (which evolved to a sinister plot) they sent out their spies to plan his demise so that no…

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all i know of luxumbourg

all i know of luxembourg
is a petrol station

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for a moment, heartache pierces keen

the cottage is warmly lit against the early darkness of an autumn night;
as i silently slip past, i notice the silhouette of stickers on new window panes.

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the dangling conversation

… for now, the morns are meeker than they were …

… and the crows above the forest call; tomorrow they may form and go …

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good friday

today the warmth returned
and the blond-haired boys were
running wild through beds
of brittle hydrangea
and barren rose canes
when the littlest
still unsteady on his feet
caught his teddybear bib on a thorn

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