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


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