a jug of oil
and one small silver jar
containing flat, tasteless bread.
White plastic collars
lying around like abandoned haloes
and a typewriter
that spitted out sermons.
And in the vault, behind iron doors
books of names, the same names
found on the gravestones
behind the church.
And in the basement a sauna
where we congregated
every Friday night
to gaze at the pit of fire.
More In: Poetry
A grown man shouldn’t need to return
to the land of his childhood
tummy-showing and barefoot.
You should live where mountains and water
compliment your dual ascendant, the one
reaching for high mountain …
take any major city
take every square
foot, every footstep
traced back on the map
of a screen
walking while writing
almost all at once
this type of transfer
It’s not negotiable. It flits through cedar, smacking
plate glass, leaving a small gray blotch. Winter, early dark
—no glittery snow to pretty things broken,
and lost. Yes, the …
My song will rest while I rest. I struggle along. I’ll get back to the corn and
the open fields. Don’t fret, love, I’ll come out all …
If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee;
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me ye women …