recent poems:

window cleaners

stand on the ledge outside the twelfth floor
in red shirts.
now one is wiping the soapy water off their squeegee with a cloth,
gripping to the frame edge below the circlehead.
sometimes you can see its surface flex under
the pressure of a soapy cloth. sometimes
you can’t see anything at all and
only the
waving arms of the window cleaners
entify the opening.
chelsea 3.25.19

phoenix in spring

windows are open on 20th St:
someone sings tunelessly from behind the pane of glass.
it used to be that two great clouds would float around the apartment
leaving wisps of themselves on your clothes where their wet noses nudged your arm.the sun is in that place that it gets to:
a bird is singing listlessly behind the gate
snowdrops and daffodils and
you could watch it roll back in if you waited long enough.
a gust of wind and a plaque
oh! that’s where wallace stevens lived,
where the blackbird landed if only for a moment.

chelsea 3.24.19


as we ascend, it steps back gradually from the street.
this is a concrete way of thinking about it,
like walking over wooden planks these
are concerned with the material nature of things.
they seep in at the angle (approx. 90°)
from which the building rises from the sidewalk
as it steps gradually back from the street.
chelsea 3.12.19

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