A poem in which the poet wears a red dress for the apocalypse or whatever

Here / trying to enact what they mean when they say Let’s cross over. / If I write about the butterfly you’ll think I want to be one But who are you

In the face of everything

Do you believe in synchronicity? We’ve been writing about gatekeepers, and this card appeared in my mail along with a deck of tarot-type cards I’d ordered: “The gatekeepers are gone. You are the one who will open the door to your dreams.”

A poem about the trouble with November

Who am I in all this / to feel love so abundant? This morning, a tree / on my lawn catches the sun. It sits in bare branches / like a bright ball of yarn I want to keep in a basket / even though I can make nothing of it.

Astronomers are terrific at explaining things

My question for Nicholson was, when it’s time to steer Cassini straight into Saturn, will you feel sad? Will you miss it? Leave it to a poet to want to understand the depth of our attachments.

Will any of our voices matter?

If I define legitimacy as believing in my voice and the creative work regardless of permissions (in other words: *I* say it’s important; *I* say it has value), I can muster the wind.

Inspiration for poems: The poetry of outer space

Outer space, spinning, breath. It’s poetry all on its own without us having to do a thing, but of course we can’t help ourselves. “The universe” — the literal universe — isn’t easy to write about, but it always delights me to attempt it (or at least work it into something).

A poem about two people in a tent

This poem (draft) is quite a bit more gentle — and certainly more sentimental — than is normal for me. Today, apparently, the muse has a fondness for camping.