We have all woken frightened in the night, listening to thick drops of falling bees,
Nests, secrets, and splintered floors
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
The Day After of the 2016 Election
and as arduous as they might be, may we cultivate Bon courage, as Rodin declared to Rilke once when he wished him goodnight.
Three Poems on the Sierra Minera
The steps down to this labyrinth are large no problem for my feet as many are. Miners who grew up in the job were small.
Summer Job
I used to mow the graveyard next to a church in South Strafford,