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,
I’ve forgotten sound: no traffic, no street.
I spent my childhood not wondering why the balsam
grew in rows—the natural state of the world
was neat and meaningful. The old rock wall mossed over,
still bounding out its acreage. Every square hole in the woods
maps a once-foundation. Every round hole remains a well.
In autumn, I prepare for death …

More In: poetry

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

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 …

If You Can Read This You Are in Range

Brassy casings and colored shells litter swamp edges and road crossings
shot from passenger windows: POSTED and PAVEMENT ENDS.
Aubrey refreshes feed plots for a hunt club he’s tired of …



If those without memory live nowhere
then the reverse must be true and

we live everywhere at once, in places
        exhumed, reanimated
so often we forget …