Scrambled Eggs

  Into your hands I commend the beating of tonight’s eggs. This will be the last meal of solid food. — When my Dad was in the final stages of his cancer, one of the few things he ate was scrambled eggs. That period of my life still circles in my mind. It was a strange

Nos Liberavit

Bell-like, round and clear Hopeful and transparent as a copper bauble, it lifts the congregation. From the sanctuary the maiden’s voice soars and plunges as she elongates the siren call.   — I am not a groupie. I’d rather spend my days in a hermit’s hut on a mountainside with books, green tea and yoga

Winterreise

  We ate at Träumerei. Maybe I ordered a quiche And he had melted cheese. Forget this not, my heart: We lunched at Träumerei. There shining in brightness on the table –  a glass of water, four peppermints and the bill. 2012 — It is from this poem that my first volume derives its title.