Poetry

What man has made now makes him

Most of my kind, when they come,
take pleasure in blinding you

Give us a magic trick,
but not a miracle.

two coals burning incense clouds to the heavens,
abandoned pretty much to the harmony of us

Tiny Lazarus.
Your story bigger than you and us.

a thousand pink buds headed toward something
that can’t be turned back,

A sudsy swill once, since restored

and clean enough for waterfowl to roost.

who, when I saw her, was so small she could have slipped inside a pillowcase

Look, see the downy feather of ashen hue?

that spot where the swallow rose and fell slowly