not everyone does evil, but everyone stands accused in the morning a dead spider curled up and dried out in a grave of sunlight and dust still small against the floorboards still mostly legs and still a bit off-putting but less without the menace of motion agency is what we fear the most
The cold is a good counselor, but it is cold. this is clear cold rain no mists in this forest just a deluge increasingly insistent saturated loam and inundant bridge— we walk on water in water one letter difference sure, easily dismissed but your feet still get wet— this the lesson everything is as it seems— an earthworm coiling in on itself a question answering a question the gray river silt the wind […]
ask a question get an answer– tomorrow the sun will rise like it always does over grass still damp with dew and your eyes won’t quite meet mine and it doesn’t matter why– no word could say it more eloquently but you went and said it, too
the maple by the window put out leaves stretching down to the shrubs, out to the pines, and aside from all this rain the house is dead quiet, the living room sunken, deluged, submersed, and now something weighty lit on the roof but then took off when I went to look, and now some robin singing, unseen, calling out warnings or conveying relief, obscure, obscured and suffused with green
I’m not sure what these keys unlock, clearly some door unused by me but still there, somewhere, funny to find a thing and then feel loss BEST and SCHLAGE in the corner of the drawer and all of the places, and all of the places, and all of the places that I’ll never go again
Camel, dromedary. Sure, a poem but why? Even taxonomy is too pliant for you. Extinct or extant. If a line drawn in the sand is too soft then what use are words that build and fall to gently say no desert no life begins or ends precisely. It is a collection of inconstant and inconsistent forms that slump or shift at best against what confines them. Naming things is such an act. Bactrians have one […]
Today a hummingbird hemming the courtyard corners, hail from slate skies, sun falling in heavy bars, the crack shot drop of a dead branch in the distance, all this wind, if not harbingers, still precisely sounded tones, probably worth noting
The camillas are all blooming now from the bottom up like they truly don’t care this month still manages to be unexpected warmth or hailstorms no middle ground lessons abound here I’m sure
Skiing while a war breaks out out of town, actually out of the country, off the ground, above the clouds, no cell service, alone and silent on the chairlift, open parenthesis to other people’s lives, and at the top dispersing, choosing easy or hard, fixed pistes, indeterminate glades, all leading back to the same place, down
I can drive back now without google mapsback home? one struggles with the definition Snow in the forecastI can’t find my gloves somewhere still unpackedthe endless boxes stacked haphazardlyin the stale spare room like the thoughtsof an insufficiently occupied mindhalf-open and malevolently unfinished winter solsticethe temperature dropping
OPTIONAL POETRY 