Poetry

Consider the bowerbird and his obsession
of blue, and then the island light, the acacia,
the grounded beasts. Here, the iron smell of blood,
the sweet marrow, fields of grass and bone.

All day I’ve followed roads. Have I come that far?
Terre Haute, Greencastle. Kokomo’s not close, but not far.

The first time you swallow—
the light, lurid and cold—

Has there ever been a group of agnostics so intent
upon meaning
in every car door shutting

I had just taken her photograph.
Everyone else crowded on the back deck, 
talking, flirting, admiring the silver
of sunset in their drinks. 

When we found out our daughter had gone deaf,
I did not question God’s fairness— 

If fluent motion could condense,
the solid essence might be this
vibrating motorcycle, dense

The whale washed ashore. Its still
body lay for days—turning and turning
one new color after another. 

I don’t quite know how it occurred
that this great fish has appeared
almost fully formed, it seemed
to crowd out all else in my aquarium