I swim in his beard diving deep my breath giving out quickly in spite of all I know to do, all that he has taught me, my Merlin, he has schooled me in the things of the pot—the dragon’s blood and the mistletoe and the black willow—he has...
Why did it fascinate me so much, that ditch my father had dug in the front lawn to fix a faulty pipe? I couldn’t keep
Where there were only dirt and needles, I laid a floor of hardwood and shellac. I plaited walls into the forest.
Last century we took a lot of shots Of what we did, framing things for Look and Life So we could see us and our lot
The light, nearly unreal scent of the Mediterranean, crowds on the streets at midnight—
As you dress, early mist reflects moonlight and silence between the winter hills
For the heron that rousts the swamp, thank you. And for spiders shocked into gradual sleep.
I am not old but old enough to believe I know what Jimmy Stevens wants when he invites my sister into his Model-A. And because
Business never slows for the air’s ubiquitous morticians, their spiraling so effortless we might admit its beauty, if we didn’t know how eagerly, in those ridiculous black boas,
