You don’t know the forest of two minds bound by weeds grown from one to the other,
Life’s on the wire; The rest is waiting. I know I’m alive when I
Dawn boils up like milk, cloudy with disrespect. Like Tin Pan Alley hacks, paid for each line, neighborhood wrens bang out their high-pitched notes.
Winter at the end of the trail, where the Columbia washes the ocean, what one book calls The Kingdom of Conifers,
This pain is so familiar (we were all children once) I let it ride my back. I offer it in,
It’s coming to you live: the high-rise ledge That doubles as a desolate precipice In a pinch. It’s all raw footage,
What we want is never simple. We move among the things
Children, when I am ash read by the light of the fire that consumes me
