top of page


(C.G.R., b. Fort Atkinson, d. 2004)

Dark head bobbing in a chevron wake

disconnected as the space surged

you slipped through the O

of our grasp.

Cool as Wisconsin, you forgot

safe dreams are toxic, that fear is how we fly --

stood off, maneuvering. We scan your log now

seeking its theme.

Cold virtues are an ancient curse --

they reek of Artemis and Mimë.

To wall one’s heart denying, is to

starve the self away.

Our saving grace is to open

like glories; for openness is all

the earth we have, we dots on the

sliding gray plates

of a following sea.

Poetica Magazine (Spring 2016), reprinted in Man Overboard (2018)

bottom of page