On the other side of my tiny town is one of the most well respected poetry presses in the country, Copper Canyon. I have been told I have what it takes to make it all the way, the whole seventeen blocks. But seventeen years have come and gone. And even the three blocks to the grocery store feel like an odyssey of epic proportions. 

It’s funny how we measure life in blocks. We turn even the most mundane measurements into...

Fingers digging into corduroy, scratching fabric. Counting is not enough, I follow my sheep once I fall asleep. All my infinitives are split. 

To really go to the moon. 
To know the moon is real. 

The sun rises each morning to the forced rhythm of a fifties doo-wop song. 

I am afraid inside every daffodil is a star.
I am afraid life is not but a dream.
I am afraid to wake up. 
I am afraid.

My winter light is as sharp as a young lover’s fingernails. We are born from a terrible brightness, fresh and shaking, sun-swallowed and full of pastel breath.

Dear one, courageous face of God, tell me your little secrets, polish your fingernails until they shine.

The cold is beloved.

Tense with joy and muscle cramps, I wait on the frosty grass for your smile. I think it’s worth writing love letters, because one day we will burn them. You are nothing like a star. We’ll need all the heat we can get. 

I want to worship you. Quixotically, embalming our notion of tomorrow with frankincense, gold and myrrh.  Tell me that you are beautiful. It’s all I need to hear. Repeat yourself, re-trace your lines...