We shared a moment
The fox and I

This is how it was

She looked up and knew me
We made a deal:

You draw me and I’ll teach you

How to be silent, to step lightly
How the earth smells
The taste of blood
The scent of a chicken
Soft skin of a lamb
What it means to be small and hungry

What is carried on the wind
What is danger, what is not

How to wear a fur coat
As if it belongs


Hard pencils scratch at my paper
9H the ultimate brutality
Mocking the futility
Of trying to erase
The indentation forever there
Small pits and raised tears
Crying out for a different ending
As if it wasn’t hard enough
9H stands in my pencil jar
Tall, Sharp and Tough.



At the monastery, I was stung by bees.

As soon as I saw that bulbous buzzing mass I knew it was only a matter of time before they came for me. Every time I stepped outside and started across the courtyard, my gaze was drawn, my ears would fill with their hum as if it was the only sound possible. I would hurry past, breathing fast, chiding myself for being afraid, the sense of foreboding increasing as I passed underneath, the skin on my neck and scalp prickling. I imagined myself a giant pulsating beacon, attracting their beady eyes or whatever malevolent sense they used to home in on a likely victim. Had I squashed too many of their brothers and sisters in my pre-buddhist heathen days? Was this instant karma coming to get me? Or did I believe my new-found knowledge of long-term karmic debts, a bee sting perhaps payback for an earlier bee life where I impaled some innocent child with my pointy proboscis.

It was in the dining hall where they finally cornered me. Others were also stung, in a feeble attempt to deny their true purpose. Two stings to the face, bee stigmata.

At the monastery I was stung by bees, and, in a moment so fleeting I have come to question it, by clarity.


He hovered just above the earth
In silent contemplation,
He thinks he was not made to die
Resisting divination.

His wish to fly, a fervent hope
Against all induration
Time sows and reaps, then whispers soft
An earthly aspiration.

He circles back, an acrobat
With cunning deformation
And finds a path he hoped was true;
The artists’ affirmation.

Road Trip

Day One

The sun has never shone before
so bright,
flashing off metal, leaf, plastic,
melting tar.
Big Sky country shimmers to the jangle of Hindi music.
At the lake of the heart
we scatter like thrown marbles,
each of us a receptacle for salty musings.

Day Two

Caterpillar train smooths out the curves,
our railed twin.
Hearts are laid bare today,
the Kiwi sees
everything new, and
epic photos pin us, like specimen bugs, to the land.
Each breath tied to place and time,
exhaled, left behind.

Day Three
The land bites back

Spooning up lukewarm spaghetti in the dark,
we contemplate omissions.
Our very own banquet of consequences, as
the French ones’ fury slices into our brains.
Stupefied with tiredness
we wait, clod-like,
for this long black ribbon of a day
to be done.

Day Four

One with the dust and flies,
a bunch of cut snakes
circumnavigating through mind-numbing heat.
Our soundtrack today
dry leaf crack, footfall on red dust.
We lay in the shade of the rock,
a moment of truth,
before returning to the beat of our own hearts.