Poetry

I wanted to play Gabriel in a tinsel crown,
but was cast as the Little Drummer. I hoped
to carry the crucifix, to ferry the chalice
down the long corridor of St. Aloysius

The forest opens wide then closes once

After curbing what hasn’t sold

I sit across the street and spy on people

taking what this morning was mine.

The cold is a knife-slice on the skin.

There’s a moment—barely—when you see both
ocean and bay from the 280 as it mills north
near Millbrae, the waters flash what they know
of daylight, and you register being a sort of gliding porch
before dunking back under cypress

I don’t lie, but I try to make myself sound worse off than I am.

Milk-tack, sugar cubes, cotton balls, chalk; 
coffee filters, marshmallows, artificial

It begins with a gesture and then grows

Because she paints barefoot, she’s barefoot in his painting
of her painting. Well, not painting, but modeling for him
as the painter she is and gazing toward her ostensible model,