The long-distance connections fade and rectify like wind tracking the filaments of wire through the echo of the tunnel, the emptiness and silence pushed on up ahead of the great green toy trains rattling and grinding to their stops, so that the notes have to rise even higher, toward ignition, as electric as the switches,…
Tonight my brother, in heavy boots, is walking through bare rooms over my head, opening and closing doors. What could he be looking for in an empty house? What could he possibly need there in heaven? Does he remember his earth, his birthplace set to torches? His love for me feels like spilled water running…
The laurel's green light keeping the song. Autumn, deer heard coming up the mountain. Six A.M. Seven points on one of them. Holy but out of luck, about to step out of time, about to meet its death on the mountainside in this rhyme. This isn't a poem about gunning a deer down. Nor is…
Reservoir & Rapture The perpetual movement of our walking by a reservoir still moves me. It was this kind of place that brought the rapture, that shook down a star. I let a walnut crash against a radiator: thump, it shatters, & the wind runs up a knickered leg. How young the day is, younger…
“It's not August! It's not August!” the man cries through my sleep, the man with the closed eyes. I know, I know, it's April. Why call for the terrible bird of ripeness to descend? A cell will destroy you in the startling end. I'd like to know what I've inherited. I'd like to know what…
One The angels are sitting on their asses. Their wings are clean. They do not bend to search the straw. They do not think of finding anything buried in the corner. Smooth, cold, white. None are related; they are all angels. Who knows how much they weigh? They do not care to mourn. They are…
And then a lighter sorrow sheltered me. For weeks I was under the cloak of an archon then I saw spring, and the spell was broken. Today the woodpeckers are nesting near the ridge. She—the big she—stays all morning in the lichen laurel waiting for them to approach her. She makes her call, “I-am-not-I-am-not” and…
It was another round. The cloud's puffed eye. A thumb torn out of the pie. The pie thrown into her face. Not bat a lash. Not lash the fields of whining grass. Not bash the sun into a simpleton. She who made the trumpet gleam and blaze made the smoky cricket weep. He who put…
—And the earth was still baffled by the small spaces, especially in spring when people admired its growth from great heights. The earth was baffled by the tiny gaps such as those between minutes. In those places of yearning, as in the emptiness between a child's back teeth, it was trying to decide if there…
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