zinc words & images

  • In the Margins

    My fingers on paper losing their way. I draw circles around you, the empty middle is where my imagination lies.

  • Sweet maple

    When I touch you It is like my hand is joined To your body Like you and I have been made From the same soft And sweet smelling wood. When I touch you I imagine the rippling Of time, moving Us toward one another But, at the pace of a Shrinking star. Possibility And impossibility,…

  • Introductions

    You are luxurious In your laughter.

  • Corner locations

    we take place take our places migrate just out of reach though we don’t dig, we are buried up to our chests in silence our chests silent for a moment and we gain our breath holding it against our skin a barrier that moves like sorrow collapses revives and collapses again forget our cardinal twining…

  • Phone call

    Capture the time I called In your hands and listen Like you would if a bee Were trapped there. Vibrations against the Soft, fleshiness of your palm. My voice, though, falling between And through your fingers. You can’t pinpoint The time I stopped calling, But remember the first call Vividly.

  • Sundays

    We come to our work-week Washed, wrung-out, Spent like soap, laying In a pool of its own Disintegration.

  • Eonic Botanic

    Sunflowers turn their head slowly, as if August’s heat has given them a life much slower than time. This seems right- they are backyard watchmen, peering over my neighbors fence and greeting the surly dogs that live to the south. Making believe that they are simple flowers and that their agenda is not to outlast…

  • Typewritten

    What are our sins? When we write home what do we say? What can we say With dust in our lungs And blood on our fingertips? Forgetfulness and the decollecting Of history stains, too.  

  • Ephemera

    Were I a song I suspect I’d be hidden, Folded into the spine Of a book. Never sung. Vaguely remembered By the writer and his wife Who hummed it briefly, Then went about getting Dinner ready. Found Too late, notes faded On the paper remains.   But, really, I’m not written yet.  

  • 8B

    Capture my shoulders In graphite. Leave the page Where you traced my soul And drew my wings. Today it was even harder to leave familiar, To tape reminders On your path and show you Where you once where. How do I convey The opposition of word and deed. You put paper to it, Reconfiguring an…