Fire and Rain along hilltops, or by shallow coastal waters, the air so still wind farms in their pegboard placements, the turbines stalled in Quixotic postures yet another heat wave jockeys for position smoke from wildfires, charred-acre ash, lifted miles at the whim of thuggish weather, settling on the windows on the leaves of the
1917 sprays of poppies, as in the first line of a poem the flush of spatter reds, nonchalant along ditches braced for gas rounds and bubbling lungs fire-step volleys at Arras punctuate routine advances, inch by inch the dawn attack the mirror of the falling-back low, raking rounds a timely barrage a biplane nosedown in
Noir there was always a cat, never there long enough to have a name and because of that the more admired there was always a woman, in a fix through no fault of her own balling her fists like the closeup of street vendors pulping lemons there was another woman, who kept a secret there
Bildungsroman: Imbibing I would eat, but she would drink cod liver oil—rancid sea stank, fire- swamp sharp over my pancakes, my pbjs, my faith that people put good things in their bodies, not lich elixir: the dank desiccating darkness of that vile vial. And she drank and hunched further, got slower and sadder. Drank because
Periapt on the Sash Lock Under this billboard where the shadows are safe from savage light, protect me. Keep me from the shifting shapes the high beams makethat become you dancing, or laughing, or touchingyour lip. Shield me from the doppler shift the faces of old friends take telling me I could neverreach. Hold me.
Elegy for Disguises Tonight the gig is up. The frozen over lake is all slusharound its borders. It isn’t fooling anyone onto its drop-down dancefloor. The branch above meets tree at raggedrupture, no body will trust it with its weight. So, too, shouldwe think of the night. Its dark looks full enough but is nogood
Across the Median So much for direction— the highway’s hunger, every bend every curve. One course, two directions. Feet can bisect lines crossed and recrossed that see in pairs that will never face one another. Parallel stripes. So much rests on reflective yellow or white paint, eyes fixed on a traveler with a destination. Something
Wish Whisper It isn’t much. It isn’t, but even the best translations are half dream anyway. The best interpretations let the blue fingers of the past find the future’s soft palm and say something tender there. I call for you here the moth of finding, the top of whose wings are green, so, when resting,
Noah’s Cottage I soft-paddle the canoeon the new lakewhere the lawn used to grow.I see the river flowgrey and patientthen the cottagemoving awayour cottageadriftwith our family memoriesattached to its walls, tucked on shelvesnestled in the sofa we dreamt onafter we played the underwater garden. I sit quietly in the canoewatch the cottagesquare bargeabsorbed by the
Resilience My grandfather’s fierce handshe wiggles fingerstendons and veins glideacross the back of his handsreturn to their place.I press a vein by his wristtrace path to knuckleempty blue vein of bloodwhich finds its way backafter I lift my finger. My grandfather’s thumb padsI press my small one on hiswatch my imprint turn whiteflat depressionplumps up
