This is a quote from my book The Company of Thieves.


Heart of Gold

Heart of Gold

The Death of Culture

The Busker on the corner plays
What was once known as jazz,
Exactly as he’s heard it
Played in earnest and
In ads.


Once again,

Day breaks in upon her
Like a thief,
Like a tender, nervous lover,

Sets a shadow

Like a veil


Her eyes.

Her perfect body turning,
Her fragrance fills the sky,
Her lips smiling warmer than the sun-

Light on her skin, the needle shadow
Marks her
Passing through the day.

Startling the Sunday Roast

Creating an unquiet afternoon,
Startling the Sunday roast
Chicken with a sermon
Passed along by someone who,
We later learned, had also skipped
Church in pursuit of
Something more

Letter From Home

I read of your death: a sentence
buried among paragraphs of nothing
in particular. I staggered like a drunk,

taking a punch. Losing you,
though I’d never possessed you,
was the first time I felt

broken. You were just
a girl until those words, and now
a generation has grown and gone and I

no longer see your face clearly, but still,
the sense memory of you and me
talking by the chilled cabinet
in a small-town supermarket,

still sometimes finds me


Through the heat-haze
In my mind, I see you
Crucified on cross-hairs,
Kiss your children,
Bless the morning, just like I do. But I can’t
See how the movement of my finger
Sets things right.