Publication

I am in the forthcoming Denver Quarterly.
Ok.
Maybe I should tell Liz Woodward I wrote a 28 part poem about her.
Or would that freak her out? (I barely know her)
Ok.

Passages 7

The lower dunes
rounded. Oceans
long, narrow
been buried
grew, slid across
hills of sand, our shadows
in the sea, salt
skins. Wasps settled,
fish unchained,
networks of fingers
they struck. Hands

in darkness,
town lights.
Groups of musicians
were strangers.
They went.
Men. Women.
In cemeteries,
dust on their robes
talked of the
countries they
see. They spoke at times.
We were misinterpreted.
Money, clothes, cigarettes
has now understood we
hotel to taxi, from taxi

blinds half way.
Of water along
shadow. Winds condensed
mountains. The sea cut
valleys grown wider, deeper
their position. Bases of the hills bent back towards the course
of the river. Lights,
only from maps.