Each morning I’d get up and make the fire –
a pocket-money job , and yet
one I enjoyed. The house was still and cold.
A thin, insipid light seeped through the blinds.
I riddled last night’s embers , watched the ash
float down in feathers to the tray bel...
I want to publish
a book filled with poems
that you can’t read
you will have to touch them
you will have to breathe them in
the poems will be so small
that they will be written
on the hearts of hummingbirds
they will be so elegant
that they will resid...