dust is glad

Do I wonder if one language

undoes the poet?

Do I fear that poetry

slays my love?

(Yes, yes.)

To be unafraid of all words,

at all times,

for all reasons—

this is my calling.

How I long for irreverence,

a casual tossing of laws aside

in light of firmament

and springtime.

How can I call on a Spirit,

a mind, a godless machine,

except by its name?

But the rocks cry out,

they say

(in lyricless euphoria),

and the brown-curled leaves

before me will fly away

as dust

to a nascent recitation

of un-mitigated




Dust is glad, yes. Yes, yes.

Had you not heard it?

Have you not learned it?

Do I suspect I have lost my soul?

Yes, yes.

But I found

Recent Posts

See All


I haven’t asked him for his number because now I am known, now the I-I-I am afraid, now I am up there on the raggedy cross with Christ: no longer unimaginable (so a little breathless), no number, no d

a better question

In the end, I suppose the better question is: how does the ocean feel about us?


I emerged from my door and carried into my present moment the quivering skeleton of a whom this poem is for, a what is trying to be accomplished. We are the escape artists. We point the way out. We pa

+1 (202) 384-5561

  • Visit my Facebook page!
  • Visit my Instagram

©2017 by The Kilele Project. Proudly created with