Poems


Moths


They are rapping
at my bedroom window.
They are mad, frenzied, in love
with light.
They throw their bodies against
the glass
to reach it.

Some cling to the pane,
to wait.
Others thrash
into the reflections
until they crumble limply
and fall,
fluttering
down to the dark below.

All night they hope to break through
and push those dusty wings
to its warmth,
to its center,
where all the color waits.


Untitled


This night my breath sounds distant
as though I am
hearing it from the next room,
as though it mingles with the dust
away from me.
The sinew of each exhale
comes up tattered and warm,
from the belly,
from the soft walls of the throat,
only to crystallize in the chilled, dark air,
to follow its cob web weavings
so that in the morning
it may rest on the windowpanes,
on the leaves of the house plants,
on your breath — an inhale.


Eschewal
A Response to Andrew Wyeth’s “Christina’s World”


I know you
were searching for the words,
because I look at you
and see that

the trees were as patient
and observant as they always were.
The pasture was
as wide as the hot,
cloudless welkin, and

the old farm house at the crest
of the horizon has much
to say under its breath.

All the words are inside,
a glint on the windowpanes.
It stirs, disquieted
with all its talk.

Give way, so that your hips
can touch the dirt,
so that your back
may unfold in the tall grasses,
so you might admire
the curve
of each blade.

Let it grow
over you, so you can hide
in refuge
from the reticence.


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