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Students all too commonly misconstrue the poem in which Sappho calls that man equal to a god, who, opposite you, leans in and        whispers, etcetera, tending to assume it’s about two people: speaker/loved one? Beloved and man near her, bending close to her, whom the poet hears as,        heads close together, they laugh softly? Wait:…

For Dewey Huston Tell me again about the butterflies, old friend of my father, bringer of tales, the gully, mossy rocks of the streambed, a cool breeze off the glacier high above, and suddenly butterflies everywhere as if the air you breathed were blossoming. I’ve seen so many things, you said. I wish I could…

To live without memory is to have each hour as a pane of air for canvas and the view from a window to paint: amber-honey cold mornings: humbled by evening:: variation and variation of ambiguous figments—ziggurat beehive auroras—flicker and go out. All history may as well be in these brushstrokes: the hand has not rested…

we do not know the name of the river that roils beneath us until we arrive at its shores—until we give reason to pass along or stay there where waters sound like uncut jewels swirling in a tide pool—until the little boats we’ve made fold like kites in a storm—until we’ve come to that point…

When he is deep inside me suddenly I see what he is doing: he is like a man in a tunnel clay walls moist, tracks gliding into the distance he carries a weak flashlight peers forward What is he doing? Is he afraid of snakes? No, he is seeking the other man the rival, the…

He entered the sty, and she cringed. She’d always Remember him, a beast with black hair And blue eyes, a young German, and the sound Of screeching ducks and gunshots in the barnyard Where treacherous neighbors had gossiped Away the good frightened family who’d stashed her And hers like livestock with souls, butchered then Or…