Category: Poetry

Seven deer stand knee-deep in the blooming water, ears pivoting forward and back, mouths dripping duckweed, they reap the summer harvest.

Make a glad noise; it is

spring. Up from the snow the crocus has

sprung, fresh from its rubbery root; it

bends back its head and opens its mouth

to hallelujah sing.

And when the moon and four planets lined up last night

Saturn was plunged into Pensacola Beach.

We could not see it, so plunged was it,

way below the Gulf.

I am I-821 and I-765, or a half-hour morning drive to paper the walls of the cramped space of a Salvadoran consulate,

Let it fly, quiet wings, whose wisdom advises you leave those insignificant battles behind, walk graveyards to understand the bones.

...let the morning fog roll in as it had from the heaving ocean

up the block from your childhood home,

now a ghost town you are loathe to visit.