Thursday, December 30, 2010


love like rain   falls

the wet collar
of her
white shirt collapses
against her neck
the soaked nest
of her hair that
the streaked egg
of her face.

if ever

if ever
like air

in truth
fills me

and ever

what sorrows

Like Grapes

the pears         thankfully
are small this year.

the tree           thoughtless
sways in abundance.

Thursday, December 23, 2010


from the edge
of the bowl
the sound
of a bell

song of brass
in ornament
of crystal
softly struck.


you waved
your arm

to say

on snow.


one fed the
hole inside


and she was
you in so
many ways.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

a year as rainfalls

a year as rainfalls

in bone memory

tree rings

archives in dense materials

eggshells know

                        too disembodied)

hardness in layers

I dream across cross-

there is love

there is love

and the will
to love like

the will
to build furniture
that stirs

when I am alone
too long.

the wind will soon be bound by the thickets

the wind will soon be bound by the thickets
that will whistle piercing incantations
none of us can decipher
                                    children hang wires
from low pin oak and locust limbs
                                                the children
are the first to consider this strategy:
monitor to manipulate

their measures continue

the songs of children form mathematical spools
of ribbon to remind us what we have forgotten
how concise a clear mind
a room without clutter
or rotted floorboards in piss-stained corners

a seamless mind with raw sunlight
on everything that passes through

everything weighed
against its resonance
ghosts shuttled through the appropriate
throbbing conduits

ghosts, inconclusive data billowing
the gauzy web of a child’s taxonomy
as if sailcloth.

Thursday, December 9, 2010


the wind howls looking
for its heartbeat          I admit
that I tend to ignore the wind

so he catches me often
calling out to   inviting
the others the lesser gods

he catches me feeding them
and is witness when they
inhabit me

            I have no excuse
for my direction or in-
discretion        I try to love
is all
                                    and you,
wind, do you love as you savor
the dance in everything
do you
as you pass through the world
as through a net
                        as you pull
at my clothes to get at my chest.

where is the grief in the harvest

where is the grief in the harvest after the land
has been sheared and after the vigils for rain
have ended                              now we must
tend to each other in ways we cannot tend
to ourselves                             I ask you to help
me push these walls outward and to hold
that line as I cut with sheer will the rusted
armatures lingering in my forsaken fields
such wreckages erected and half-erected
                        abandoned for other promises
and now the clean-up you’ve been brought to
for twenty years now like a secret cabin in a
secret wood with faded curtains and dishes
that remind us of childhood summers at an
aunt’s or grandparent’s house             full
of anachronisms and inherited meanings
inhabited with small suitcases where I hid
my humiliations and my shame at not being
like anyone else                       sometimes
I dream of this cabin with my ghosts politely
knocking on the door   asking through the windows
if it is time yet growing impatient insistent
and I wonder now that the harvest is over
and the light is dropping down in its golden bow
when will you invite me to your cabin to meet your
ghosts and to help unpack the suitcases         when
I ask as if through a window.

Thursday, December 2, 2010


at night the dead make crowns with their bones
to mimic the living who with feathers
mirror the gods.

as they roam the dead carry collections of our teeth
like a pocketful of tombstones
or a riverbed.

the vision of the dead like autumn wind is blind
hands of the wind comb the dry fields
for the love the dead leave behind.

At the End, At the Beginning

            The crows are still asleep, though morning has made her introductions and apologies.  Leaves, bound only by frost, float off at the warm touch of her arrival.  At the edge of the field the corn shakes off the night breath, while the river lingers over her song of the ones who roam and thread the sinewy moonlight of this ancestral valley.  For a moment, nothing moves;  then the oily air spatters with cartwheeling crows while on wires and treetops other crows start shouting punchlines to jokes they can’t ever remember.

need to walk

need to walk
out beyond
the usual
where sadness
like tinsel
over snow
where the wolves
the tarred shell
of your heart

out there
in the snow
another heart
in the wound

in the healing