June 5

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The heart is not here,
it can not, will not, be here—

in all this rain, more than
we’ve seen in several years.

A rabbit darts through
the overgrown lawn,

now gone to seed, each blade
a reproach. What hasn’t

been done, what can not,
will not. A sparrow ascends,

becomes untethered. Motion
is sometimes but not always

distraction. The clouds oppress
but containing is what breaks you.

In their garden beds
the radishes crack.

May 26

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worms at the core
like you’ve always known

I’m sorry it’s take me so long
to see and to act

but if you want to tear it down
and build again from scratch

here are my hands
and here is a match

May 20

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To wound the heart is to create it
I felt it flit across
the back of my hand

before I saw it
a fleeting shadow

a large spider
already gone

before the stomach drop
the untaught unease

I saw another stationed
on the orchid’s leathery leaf

another where the garden
abuts the foundation

another tracing the fall line
of the shower

I leave them alone now
some say age

make you less tolerant
but it is softening me like a blow—

house spiders
this as much their home as mine

and there are worse things
that linger unseen in the dark

May 16

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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

but less

without the menace
of motion

agency is what
we fear the most

May 15

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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 lashing
the osoberry—

there is no need
for justification—

the land slides
slowly and inevitably

down the bank
the bleeding hearts

trace the mud
with their petals

this day is cold
the rain makes it more so

May 14

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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

May 12

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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

April 1

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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

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

March 19

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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
hump. To be exact. You

have hurt me
with your indifference.

March 15

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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