Poetry

In the wind I lose the tumble of bone-white rocks down the hillside in summer

Sky grey as gunmetal,cross breeze cold front raw and cuttingfrom the west, afternoon light thinand abstinent. This has becomeour November, monthwhen I sit down to writesome catastrophe of a poemon the warm broth, sageand lemon stuffed autumn birdsmall fingerling, loose leaf dragonwelllong tongued wa

 Lord: it is time. Bright summer fades away.Let sundials darken as your shadows grow.Set loose your winds across the open fields. Let the last fruit still ripen on the vine,And give the grapes a few more southern daysTo warm them to perfection, and then pressTheir earthy sweetness into hea

the murky water veiled those pleas
the history books obscure as when numbers
steal prisoners’ names.

Why did you welcome it into the house?

On the first day, I didn’t know
it was the first day.

Home water, why?Cold sunlight, new heavenstrikes the shallows of white,wavering tissue, new earth.They are here,gaining the still pool,a million salmon bones.Soul flood. Head down.Study this hieroglyph, stunned. Metal-skinned swimmerscrash from the hurtling channelto this blinding delta,where m

A flicker in the woodsyet enduring as those trees.This twice-spawned leafmakes you believe youcan almost catch lightin your hands. Whatever rootit takes depends on what footbecomes a flower. Brief bliss, whose moth life holdsclose to the flame, this little wormwith wings, so that time may showu