There's something sinister about a
wind that slides in after nightfall,
particularly if it's also the sort
whose whisper grows to a groan
by supper, groan grows to
a moan by bed-time, and
moan mounts to a shriek by
midnight.

On Sleep

I try not to hear things at night, but
things try much harder to be heard.
The grandfather, the clock,
bellowing every quarter-hour;
his many offspring ticking
praise and condemnation to me,
tocking out their quarrels:
they never can percuss a united front;
the heater, rumbling in the
dungeon like a discontent dragon;
automobiles-
electricity-
all too shy to whisper during the day,
but reliably willing to shout at night.


My refrigerator is an insomniac. At least, a restless sleeper. It rouses and grumbles, stretches and yawns its way through the night. Each time, my grandmother rises and checks on it.

If you were to crack my head open, these would spill out

Forgetmenots, judgemenots,
call them what you may,
my linguistic buds

Bloody mannequins
on a mock battlefield
in remembrance

Fruit fly flitting
and living and loving for
two weeks, max

The sun's affections
lost on scholars-
exam week

Outside my window the bird
drags morning out of bed
three hours early

The warm spring breeze
whispers through the curtains
in a thousand languages