All messages presented a plain solution. One morning in the east valley, the sun was eclipsed and as the sentry steadied the cooking pot, there was a brief and splendid shower of red moths. This wasn’t a diversion, but a signal to arise. We were well advised and got going. For the navigators, the fish…
There could be werewolves! At this latitude at least the rain can suffer in the night such a change, and lock the world inside itself, make it not the world but a likeness displayed behind glass as in a wax museum. Cut off in mid-sentence, is it not the custom to stare dumbly at the…
After Thanksgiving what is there but old newspaper and wet leaves pressed on the drive. We step out on to the road glistening like blue coal and can walk for miles. The doctor next door stands in his yard, hands to hips, surveying spanish moss the limbs wrenched out of the sky. A dog wags…
Beyond the window there’s only the lawn and a fence forming a square around the house. I strip the meat off the fish and throw the bones into the soup. Rising from the pot, the oils collect in a tight skin across the lid. This is the way my patience leaves and then comes back…
My voice disembodies. It will not stay where I am. Let it go, make friends with the distance, and where there was silence, let there be silence again, but different, more peculiar. For nothing must return exactly. Should my voice come back with the general wind saying “Distance didn’t want me”, I won’t claim it….
How can nothing be gold? My eyelid closes down the whole damn sky, in solid dark I see stars as perforations, loneliness as blues, what isn’t as a heavy weight, what is as nothing if it’s not ephemeral. The winter world could turn your corneas to ice, so let the sense be made. A summer…
I fly in sharp as Mies van der Rohe. I sit on the old couch at a raucous angle, toss out reels of the latest information but they look away, the kingfisher and his wife, my mother. Outside a jay is throwing seeds from his feeder. All around, the pines are black or pure white,…
The leafless trees are feathery, A foxed, Victorian lace, Against a sky of milk-glass blue, Blank, washed-out, commonplace. Between them and my window Huge helices of snow Perform their savage, churning rites At seventeen below. The obscurity resembles A silken Chinese mist Wherein through caligraphic daubs Of artistry persist Pocked and volcanic gorges, Clenched and…
for Joe and U. T. Summers Not of the wealthy, Coral Gables class Of traveler, nor that rarified tax bracket, These birds weathered the brutal, wind-chill facts Under our eaves, nesting in withered grass, Wormless but hopeful, and now their voice enacts Forsythian spring with primavernal racket. Their color is the elderly, moleskin gray Of…
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