Poetry

Aftermath

Blindfolded, without sky- or land- mark, no lightning-struck fir flagging the pine break, no particular ark of known stars—Little Dipper, Southern Cross—the body, pressing on, no matter how piano-wired, how absent Continue reading

Stillwater

With no metaphors for what turns and turns, for what meets the ground from clouds, I collapse in the room my barn-blue, silicone funnel. My students, as unruffled as the spectators Continue reading

Burning

My heart was attached to the firewood. It was wrapped first in kindle, thread, rosemary, then burned as tinder. I asked myself how I had lived racing toward an end that Continue reading