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Song

after BPK It wasn’t a goat’s head swaying in the tree. It was a ferret we sacrificed in the microwave. And we weren’t us yet just the preteen versions of who we would become— though wasn’t that us already?—the girls

Two Poems

The Departure   Farewell my pond and all my many doves Upon their tower and who kindly donned Their silky plumage and its swollen loves Farewell pond.   Farewell my home and all its gables blue So many friends in

At Once People at the End of T…

come from common spaces to move around the fountains and the flowers of Hyde Park. They appear early, soundless, as if shod in slippers of sleepwalkers.  They embark then pause, each breath the birth of a small god. Thoughts enter

Words

Words are loyal. Whatever they name they take the side of. As the word courage will afterward grip just as well the frightened girl soldier who stands on one side of a street, the frightened boy soldier who stands on

Babel of Signs

Skirting the coast desperate for fresh food cutter nosing in for soundings miles offshore they anchor overnight wake in thick fog-bank that abruptly lifts: surrounded: 300 canoes: a tremendous din of wild yells (the first Europeans they had ever seen)

I’m Nothing

close to a Zen scholar, haven’t learned to manage my blood pressure as billionaires plunder the planet selling-off our remaining resources and everything heads to hell in a hand basket. No matter if I poke my walking stick in the

Two Poems

Blind The way, as I wake, some shimmery dream rushes toward the sun’s obliterating flame, the day, too—this lit second, and this, the crux of it, a wild weeping at its heart—feels gone already as I enter it.  Blind ancient

PHYSICS, ETC.

Everything and everybody are always doing something. At no time on earth are all human beings still. Or never does the high-quality packaging around your prescription Stop deteriorating to unusual twists, it’s just slow. I suppose the rose bush is

Family

None of my friends called their grandmother Nana. Only I did. And mine wanted to be called Nana probably for the same reason years before she insisted that her only child, my mother, even as a baby, call her Lee.

Two Poems

Morning, Redux   Another morning in the  obscure, light  spackling the  clouds  rolling  in, running before  some  storm. The  sky flattened like an unstamped envelope. The  local predators must have been  sleeping  in. It was early November, songbirds off on

Three Poems

from   Devil Mutant Child a tale of an evolution of emotional intimacy            for Florida Missouri Brasier 2. Exactly the hair I wanted, I am not complaining. Were I to choose what sprouts from my head, this hair is exactly

Between the Bed and the Window

First, the light, which is always perfect if it’s arriving from the sky, at this moment indirectly from the east, reflected off the banked clouds in the window and making the dim bedroom visible including my feet, having followed the

What Light Tastes Like

Depends on the hour of departure and if flowers or fruits, maybe the lacy grapeyness of kudzu in early fall, for all its artsiness a killjoy at heart.  I will rot before I regret being driven from Gaylord Drive, though

Two Poems

Untitled     Day as in backwards   as in wisps of rain and a two-room flat against the sea   I loved the long flights of stairs and the high-sided streets and the well-worn shoes just inside the door

April

I think I will accept my life, the moment of its briefness, which means I must accept my failures in this cosmos where only angry gods reside.  When I am disconsolate, I wonder did they ever cry?  If they did