Bunkulung Dreams

With the blend of millet wine Sipping; resting Among the blooming and towering trees Snuggled under the blanket of unkempt foliage Leaning against the arms of Murmah Khola and Balason

Nights at the New York Hilton

I miss my husband’s smell, even his hairy back! I pick gnats for memories in the wool of chimps. I lobby the United Nations for land where My friends can roam freely.  I hit a wall of chimps.

Las Pampas

Skies like freshly-pealed orange halves A precious and pulpy atmosphere like a sun-bleached birthday The flat-flat horizon with oblique shadow-showers in the hazy distance As a raindrop cracks the glass gladly


Nameri and Jia Bhoreli entwine like lovers, Their offspring – little fish Gliding under the water

Three Poems from Chile

I will hide my house next to the zoo, and build it with two streams running through it. I will sneak a mosaic under one stream, a doorway through a cabinet, and a cupboard in a hollowed-out TV set.


The sand is a violence of many hands, the bus a trespasser scuttling across dank furrows. Fangs of arrowroots rise in speckles of sighs, match-boxes are lopsided love stories.

Sharp January Night

They have to, at this latitude, where fire and ice mix with no uncertainty, in rock and ash, in rupture and stillness. Deepening those October nights with a fire at hand


Endless blue: water speared by luminous scales of fish blue; shoreline women stating fashion, blue silk against brown skin; and the wiry blue line on the fishing reel: long-sleeve, thin white shirt, rod held swaying over water on a cobalt night.