Poetry

An afterthought? When all but one
of the glovers or joiners who signified

Red Sea had been sewn
fine caps for ready

We have eyes like Choctaw bonepickers:
Catch extra letters, all caps, no caps,
Wrong caps, censorious fingers

[…]

These evening hours of blank heat I feel
utterly alone, until the air ripples a bit
and I think of everyone luxuriating in its
 gift
at once, like a congregation. I live, after all,

I came to my senses with a pencil in my hand
And a piece of paper in front of me.

Oh, yesterday, that one, we all cry out. Oh, that one! How rich and possible everything was! How ripe, ready, lavish, and filled with excitement—how hopeful we were on those summer days, under the clean, white racing clouds.

What we want
is never simple.
We move among the things

Children,
when I am ash
read by the light of the fire
that consumes me