One by one he vanishes, part
of a long line I don’t remember
falling around, covers the open
book please close your eyes,
Fever Snow and other Poems
Self-Portrait as Broken Fog Machine
Nesting on the outline of a window a little broken handle used to turn
the grating system now clogged with rust & silt. I once clouded rooms one
was afraid to stay in for fast escape.
Thirteen Ways of Remembering Lonnie Black
He was his own version of Mr. Rogers in a classroom of children, he was even referred to as The Poetry Man;
Nests, secrets, and splintered floors
We have all woken frightened in the night, listening to thick drops of falling bees,
Two Poems
This isn’t the play I thought I was in, I say, when I go to bed, again, without you. It’s not the part I was first offered, I tell myself as I lie awake.
Yellowstone
when I can sit quietly with my son, a struggle that grows harder as he grows up, so that the memory I choose to unfold is not the wolf, or the river, or the geysers, but instead the hour I spent reading to him beside the washing machines in Bozeman