Craig Morgan Teicher Poems

There must be soft words
for an evening like this, when the breeze
caresses like gentle fingertips
all over. I don’t know
...

Inaudible voice, silent voice,
voice in my head, voice of my head.
speaker of my thoughts, speaker
of thoughts I do not think but hear
...

In my twenty-ninth year, and in the two-
thousand and ninth since the birth of Christ,
I was laid off from my job. I worked
as a book reviews editor and news
...

It's not the idea of collective improvisation I like,
not the show of instrumental virtuosity,
not the hipster life. And jazz isn't my history.
No, when the tune is really going, when horns spike,
...

If it were true it would make more sense. It must
not be true. It makes too much sense. The truth
makes no sense. Too true. It's too good to be true.
It makes no sense, it must be true. Or must not.
...

that minute subdivision of time
during which the full consequence
flickers, just before the door clicks
shut but just after you could have
...

As if time were a cure. As if all things
pass, this too shall pass were a cure
for time, the time it takes, time enough,
...

I feel like Emily Dickinson did,
running her pale finger over each blade of grass,
then caressing each root in the depths of
the earth's primeval dirt,
...