Poetry

Midwinter you can see past the trees, white oaks and tulip poplars, tops golden in the low sun. Today, not a cloud. The old fireroad leads up Old Raggedy, up to boulders and the sheer outcrop silver with snowmelt. What matters lasts a long time: rock, timber, streambeds with predicaments where the water falls. But…

for Thomas Cripps Like a clothesline of whites colored hands couldn't reach, a thousand souls crossed promised air, & the screen glowed like something we were supposed to respect & fear. Daylight & Sunday were outside, waiting to segregate darkness with prejudices of their own. A silhouette behind a flashlight led us down an aisle…

I dream of a crowded street where I break A kiss into your mouth; instead my windows Are darkened with curtains and in fear I want to hide you, your sigh, my hand Cupping your fast breath so those who walk by Will not hear. We do even this honest thing Wrong and lie down…

Doc Kitchens told me about this trapper he took the appendix out of name Robb Valton the one got his finger cut off but he found it put it in his pocket when he got home sewed it back on the stump part didn't work fell off after a week so he buried it but…

I should have taken her, she was the only thing I saw in Panama I wanted. —Mary Jane Megquier The girl had the aspect of the plantains she squatted over: chartreuse-bright and curious what would follow. “Compralos,” she said, rattling coins in her palm. There were no shadows but her obsidian hair. “Sell her to…

I stood as long as I could on the edge of the pole house, one finger on reality, storms I could count, and a cup of milk in my other hand like a virtue I did not possess but nevertheless, took to my grip. As to the piñon and scrub oak at my feet I…

By then, by the time my brother Was getting married, weeks away from When the old apartment would be pulled down, The evenings were warm and the sounds of Freight trains were absorbed by three oleanders, Whipped by iron sounds and the wind of its passing. By then, by the time I was nineteen And…

Dear Larry: Looks like I won't need to borrow the car after all: the trip to L.A. is out of the question. I didn't know a life could break down like a chemical. Salt. Plutonium. The odorless noose of carbon monoxide. Up north a few years back, a group of kids committed mass suicide in…

I keep my eye on the desert room floating with silver and black blades, the shadows of date palms in the hands of the vanished magician. He is silent, missing repeatedly the lady in the white box. She's made an austere retreat into yet another nothing, into my own approval of not-doing in this heat!…