Summer, dusk encroaching,

crickets chirping, frogs are croaking,

the moon above the meadow

as the forest thickens, black

through the interweaving thickets

(don’t forget to ask the crickets

what they think of all the flashlights

lighting up the trail back)

from the softly crackling fire

that we all stop to admire

before climbing into dusty beds

to wait for coming dawn.

And I never slept so deeply

so contently, so completely;

crickets at my city window

I want to get out of bed every morning

because it pleases Me. I want to lay 

sacrifices at My own altar in the form

of coffee and bagels, spend time 

anointing My own hands and feet.

I want to say a prayer to Myself

while backing down the driveway,

trusting Myself that I will be 

careful, steady, sure. I want

to purify My own hands before

each meal, to set a watch about

My own house in the evenings.

Check the locks and thank Myself

for a hard days work at being

What is a number

but a point on a line?

And a point on a line

isn’t much.

Sure, you can point

to three apples, or two

or six-hundred seventy-four.

And that might be a handful,

an armful, a bushel,

a shopping-cart, car-seat, or more.

But the number itself

is a point on a line,

not something you’re able to touch.

A point has no mass

or substance, or sound.

It weighs less than a drop of good ink.

Now, the Real Number Line,

it’s got heft, it’s got weight.

If you put it in water, it’d sink.

But it is made up

out of points on a line

and each point weights nothing at all.

And nothing times nothing

is exactly the same

as nothing plus nothing, which is

exactly the same

as infinity nothings;

it’s zero, it’s nothing, it’s fizz.

And all counting numbers,

infinity long,

can be crushed up

infinitely small.

And all of the numbers

you know and you love

can fit in a set

we call “null.”

You could subtract that set

from the Real Number line

and it wouldn’t get any less full.

And you may wonder,

how can this be so?

Or you might not believe 

that it’s true.

But what is a number?

Does anyone know?

I certainly don’t,

They say joy comes unlooked-for

but I looked for mine

in the chilly February sky

and in the clear, round drops

of rain on the smooth, black paint

on my car. I look for it

in the blast of cool air when

you walk into a coffee shop in summer.

In the slip and slide of 

freshly-shaved legs on sheets,

in the honey and cinnamon taste

of the cream cheese I put

on my bagel this morning.

In the clear rainboots

of the girl with the short skirt

and long slim legs.

The better you get at looking

When life gets weird I like

to rustle up the bees. Tonight

one huddles deep inside my throat

another stings between my thighs.

All empty eyes and bodies bumping

up against my ribs, a cup

half-filled with ice and fizz 

that rattles, rather like their wings

Beyond the black lacework of the branches

lay a psychedelic pattern of orange clouds

roped purple and gold, low slung

over the heady Dallas skyline

Of course, none of this impressed

the six, identical black stray cats

I long to be safety. I often

imagine myself as a bulwark;

a mighty fortress of kindness

          (if God is dead, that’s fine

            I will become Him)

But on the other hand, I worry

that my only value is meekness.

I long to be useful, but know

there any many who’ve seen me

and said, “now there is a girl

I rode into town on the apocalypse bus

and watched as late December dust

crept past the sun and turned the light

all fake, and gray, and brown, and bright.

The birds who fly against it choke

or turn their little wings to smoke

and ashes, tumble down and dry.

They lack the common sense to die.

But I am neither bird nor ash

I taste the season in the flash

of change, and drink the portents down.