Poetry

The first time you swallow—
the light, lurid and cold—

You have always been nosebleed 
     and nail-bite, the spit-shined halls 
where you harvested us with your tribal 
     clang. Too long we saw your face 
in every shadow, felt the whole forest 
     await your arrival like a nagging frost.  

Not that you ever are. The small, rough dogs lie at your feet or warm your belly.

It’s hard for
the master
sharpener after
all that work
to have the shaft
taken for the point.

If fluent motion could condense,
the solid essence might be this
vibrating motorcycle, dense

The whale washed ashore. Its still
body lay for days—turning and turning
one new color after another. 

I don’t quite know how it occurred
that this great fish has appeared
almost fully formed, it seemed
to crowd out all else in my aquarium

Everything outside my house
is my teacher

One still morning in a high, hushed village
on that green island of cypress and pine,
sun-beat oak and rock, from a rooftop whose
loose tiles dislodge from my careless steps