love people. take pictures. write things down.

photos and words by Caroline

Category: poems.


Stop being jealous of the beautiful girls

who have beautiful nails that don’t chip paint

with words and practice silence

the voices that tell me I can know anything about the end

the laziness and sign up for a race

into the arms of those whom I love before they turn to smoke

less—only on Mondays when I am across from the bus station

God in all areas of my life that I may find a place

my clothes and books where they belong and develop some taste

food and smell air and touch everyone




I read that his mother said, “Adam,

it is not good to for you to be alone.”

And I wonder–did he respond with a semi-automatic

argument? Or was there silence, like the song

Paul Simon played at the funeral

of a 27-year-old hero who still slept with a teddy bear?


Either way, we weren’t listening.


I couldn’t write it then–

(but I can now–why is that?)

–couldn’t see then that your room had only three walls and I couldn’t

hear the creaking

floorboards (hiding something?) and I fell for

the slant of the headlights passing

all night through the basement

window over two sleeping humans who had walked

through a greener country

with vinyl over our heads

(don’t worry, it was kind of beautiful)


frost covered us overnight

and someone was always watching.

arts & leisure

home is where the time is

in lepoard-print journals and crushed shoeboxes

photographs with orange spots (water damage from the flood)

I smooth the creases and my father says, “I don’t remember that.”

or, “were we on vacation?”


home is where the Times is.

pieces of yesterday, scattered sections of weeks ago–

a slice of October still sits in the living room.

seasoned with eraser crumbs (crossword abandoned.)


I read the Sunday Styles

in my church clothes (jeans are O.K.)

and later with my mother under the Costco blanket.


We forget the wine in the freezer

Accidentally preserving something that improves with age.


when entering woods

(another October is over—)

a woodpecker knocks back, hello

“If only I could give you

the moments I have alone.”


maybe, here–

we could get married?

go home, watch movies (in the same bed.)


and name our daughters after trees.


I am happy here, you know,

with my New Collected Friends.

I’ve taken all of their photographs

(holding their dogs and their dreams)


but do you want to come over?