It’s a beautiful late fall Sunday here in Augusta and he’s driving balls off a tee in his back yard, hits the water every time. But then, his yard faces the city lake and there’s no fence and it’s a small town but a big lake, no way he can miss it. His swing is
Time ticks in pipes that grow and dim with hot water rush, a slow dissolve absorbed by blizzard’s roar, windows white whirls against cold hard panes, world blurred into tiny fragments, perfect crystals when water stops its flow, falls from frigid sky and plants upon glass before it slips away into time’s flow.
In worn cardboard boxes lie old calendars, pages torn, corners bent, years and months littered in neat stacks on estate auction tables, a stranger’s life up for bid, squares on grids filled in and passed and worth a dollar.
Down in Little Dixie, near a creek that feeds into the Red River. Heard from an old black man buying snuff and worms in a store off 70 east of Hugo. He’d bought a used Chevy from my dad. “You bring a pole, some worms,” he said. “Bream big as a logger’s hand. ‘Cept one
The poet comes onstage in the dark, then the spotlight rings his pale face in perfect order few hairs slicked beady eyes taking dual aim pursed lips like slot machine for fine effect pince nez perched; English accent devastates terse intros elucidate phrasing meticulous, world-view verses silences packed with awe applause explosive; but do not
Jesus could not have walked out on this water this water belongs to Mishipishu. Jesus could not have flown up in to this sky this sky belongs to Thunderbird. You see settler, you see occupier, you see colonizer This land was created in the one breath of all the animals, all of creation made it.
the tall tornado siren stands mute over an unkempt stretch of green belt deer graze beneath canopies of twisted cedar elm, preferring the thinning stand of trees to the exposed pasture wary too, of clearings I watch them from within a screened porch sanctuary as lightning illuminates the sky the storm is yet miles
The television speaks in tongues. He sits alone, black suit, tie slightly loosened: through the archway, carnival atmosphere vibrates the dining room: bits of conversation float You remember Robey, she’s the one … table bows under stuffed ham, squash casserole, fried oysters, spoonbread, inevitable gelatin mold …love the recipe, do you know who… his daughters
Our diamond was gold and soft as rosin, good for sliding, yet for every run we made we nearly died. For our diamond had a single flaw, a fourth base no one ever touched, but each had to pass on the way to glory. I loved the sure, straight lines, the sweet smell of
Who are we when we walk Amongst the bitterns? Our rubber boots sloshing like horse hooves In the reedy mud. Twirling perfumes, organic’s Seductive concoctions Of Bulrush root and reed grass. A bittern’s calling haunting The shadows that we are To them. In a bittern’s world, Through sunlit veils of mist We are as a
