we are not asked to see, the ridged foldsof the black walnuts, fallen, come veinedas any mind split from its skull, leachingwhat little parades as peace. Rotand wet. My right instep, sneaker’sunderneath, crushes a once greener skingone brackish at the cap. Looking up,the branches meet in an arch you canwalk under, pass through. And downthe…
Thierry I am here because it’s too crowded on the other side of this sentence.Take this page—where do I place myself? At the beginning or the end,or in the middle? Or maybe in the corner. I can’t be everywhere, that’swhat I’ve been told my entire life. They say we have a choice, but wheredo you…
Along a familiar hiking trail I recognizeagave, sage, the summer-blooming yucca,and sticky monkey flower. *As if they might be learning a new dance,elders plant their feet on steady ground,gathering wind in their arms to move cloud hands. *Returning home tonight I avoid crushinga snail that casts a scant shadowon the wide sidewalk in clear light of a…
Clear, please, as a glass house.Ladled in plates, liquidform, silica, sand, dolomite, lime. Then be tempered, shaped, cranedtill you stand fastened to the forestfloor, reflecting. And if a sudden garden strutsup, risingin ribboned slope of pine and pin oak, laurel or fleabane, you can draw markersfor their names, it’s all yours, isn’t it, the bitsto…
In late summer I swim across the lake to the stand of reedswhich grows calmly in the foot-deep water on the other side. It is like going to a florist’s shopyou have to take your clothes off to get to, where nothing is for sale and nothing on displaybut some tall, vertical green spears, and…
The room cannot feel its arteries stuffed with animal fatfrom the insulation. Cannot hope to alter its mouth andeating is not a thing that it can do well. The room hasn’ttaken a bath since 1987, but there was a slight wash in1992 bestowing the room its perforated body. The roomcannot control the content of its…
On the morning she became a young widow,my grandmother, startled by a sudden shadow,looked up from her work to see a hawk turnher prized rooster into a cloud of feathers.That same moment, halfway around the worldin a Minnesota mine, her husband died,buried under a ton of rockfall.She told me this story sixty years ago.I don’t…
I’ve watched this ultrasound so oftenI close my eyes and picture a daughter feathered with pixels,a putto’s skeleton. So here is a piece of art I own, a representationany impressionist would be proud of for it moves, though it doesn’t yetmove me. But I do return, so she has achieved what a painting wants:to be…
The sun was nothing more than an orangethe day Lisa ran for the ice cream truck.It was small and even if it held sweetness,even if it seeped Vitamin C, it couldn’t stopthe car from barreling down Mott Avenue,couldn’t shine enough to show the driver the eight-year-old girl dashing in front of his Pontiac so that…
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