Article

It's been around a lot of times— the orbiting of my life— the notches grow blacker.

If the town celebrates his roasting it's their right. He's their hog. He's pork now. His life in the mash has gone sour. The bad fairy presides over his crispy feet. The prodigal has come back and does not need such company. Now the fires licks this one all over. Now the fire is giving…

Tonight wind is so strong I figure it's a ghost that makes it howl and leaves rustle until they scream oak. It comes down from the graveyard that overlooks a field of condo now instead of corn. Pox filled with fisherman and farmer back when the King kept the coast colony and taxed your heart…

It's got me. Right in the heart all this— a nest— made of broken things— twigs and frayed string; all my talk is a prayer, my eye toward color looks out.

And these others — what are they? Not dolomite, sandstone, shist or calcite. I might include ice — the colorless mineral, if ice stayed ice. But what is this one? Some go nameless, do not look like their pictures. This stingy lump, this once hot magma? This is our whole cause of trouble over arithmetic….

This is only a short trip but the horses don't know that blindfolded beneath the deck. They stand tense and steaming, I know their eyes are walled and bright beneath the cloth. Their hard breathing is my asking what should I do? and telling myself nothing. The ship's horn, a sudden shift; it doesn't take…

I can't help but believe the killdeer, so deftly has it led me, dragging its own wings away from a poorly hidden nest before clenching back into flight, and I can't help but believe in a love that would make itself so vulnerable for its young. It is hard to understand, but only by leaving…

for Margitt The name of the boy is Michael, who rows, his sister mans the sail. The storm, the boat, the chorus' call for the boy to row it ashore, hallelujah, slowly sung over. We hear children master this gospel and I wish all sight of the shore the storm estranges that brother and sister…