Can’t Tell You Much

In the frozen aisle’s uniform glare
a tall boy stares. Not through the glass
doors at tubs of ice cream or the stacked
pizzas in cardboard. Through the air
ahead, toward the checkout registers,

but I’m sure it’s nothing there, not the movie
magazines, racks of chocolate bars, dyed
carnation bouquets. I’d say he looks
amazed by a scene in the near future.

Come to a standstill as if he means
to keep what distance he can …

More In: Chronicles


In golden underbrush and old growth, the wood-borer
opens timber to light. The bracken thorns itself against the sky.
By the time I wake to branches falling against the roof,

Go Figure

In her and her and her I saw myself:
in carved sandstone, a voluptuary,
her neck coiled to face her back, her back
twisted to pinch and raise for inspection


San Marcos, Texas

Around noon the sheriff pulled up at my aunt’s house.
My cousins had been shooting guns
around back. Bullets fell like ash in the neighbor’s yard.

My mom told …

What an Arroyo Can Do

It is possible for an arroyo to hold water,
just as a gutter, one of its definitions, can.
But mine is high in the desert and dry as scorn.

The …

On the Semi-Frozen Sanabria

My brother laughs, bets he can cross
Without falling through.

We know he can’t—
The ice is too thin.

I dare him anyway.
Dad’s head shakes no.

My brother, half on land, half …