Poetry

One summer he planted a tree it was young, just a few branches no bigger than a rosebush. We were intent on watching it we were young we wanted the fruit to come. Father brought the coffee can outside paced between the tree and the backyard spigot. We liked to watch him fill the can…

Last night I walked in a field. The moon lit the snow: snow gray as the moon. And tried to remember your face—Luna Moth, circling the cold flame of the moon. At the same moment you looked up, protracting the old angle: self, secret-love, and the moon. The earth was young too. But what’s left…

The lovely lady posted in red No Hunting. Last night the supreme hunter crossed the meadow, into the house, to the target.

We saw it on the side of the road, its back legs splayed like scissors that have come unhinged: a rabbit dragging its ruined parts, insisting on the sweet grass beyond the curb. We knew it was dying, Susan and I. We said We should leave it, as we stopped down the road and asked…

Not here, where the birds pound their beaks on the rail and the blue jay feeds before the sparrow and a dried pot of mums holds a frozen pink flower, no, not here but elsewhere. Not here, where the grass no longer wonders or cares if the wind beheads a sunflower under the terror of…

i. In late October, daylight stood with one leg in the dark. A boy swung himself through his unzippered jacket to work his feet up. Then monkey-handed he headed for a part of the branch he was heavier than and bobbed there like a hunk of suet. But with girls it was different: you came…

i. Do they hate each other, I wonder, she who will live on and he who is dying? I fill their bird feeder with safflower. Each dip of the orange pitcher scatters seed from its lip to the earth, in ecstasy. An arc. A small rain falls down. Bruised light a nacre over everything. My…

See my colors fall apart? Green to yellow with just one shade gone, the changing tints of your sun-struck eyes, if there were sun. Today the prism held to mine’s   a prison, locking in the light. In one of those mirrors the colors are true. In one of these pictures the pigment’s my own….

My favorite God a horse the color of my name. And when I ride him, a heat between my legs, like tongue on ice, friction of moon against darkness. Over and over, the hooves, the rain, finding the ground. Hearts, black boots flung there in the mud behind us. And all around us, the leaves…