A Tree in a Bubble

A tree growing gnarled

inside an intrepid bubble

floating up toward a windmill made of tulips.

How Dutch my dreams are these days

And I always go Dutch with them.

I will pay for my own lead and bread

if dreams will pay for theirs.

What happens to me when I float without roots,

a microcosm of germs and stardust rising toward

my personal zenith?

Black Pink

Black pink


Space in a coma.

Sugar up and down.

Sour Sundays stay out of sight.


We are not as rich as we think we are.


Yet I have an untried umbrella,

a love of picket fences,

and black pink.