The elm split by lightening stands
above the bench where my father sat
the summer he could no longer breathe
enough to walk to the Avalon
without stopping. I sat …

I like to wash wool blankets
in a rubber tub, stomping
as if I live on a vineyard,
the detritus of a year
squelching and puffing
between my feet. I …

a crow pits his beak against the fruit, the push
   and pull of intimacy an ease, a vulnerability.
   How lovely to pit our mouths
    against each other. …

The mailman brought a Florida postcard
or a thin white envelope the weight of an anvil.

The potted African violet in the kitchen window
raised its richest purple or drooped.

The mother …