Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry,
Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam
And clear dances done in the sight of heaven.
They spoke a language that smelled of horsehair
and tasted of apple butter and red beet eggs
a finger here, a knuckle
there, but never the hand al-
together, except in a vision
for which I’m loathe to take
any credit, even for a nail
The hills have turned so green it almost seems the world could melt into an emerald blaze, a conflagration of jewels and diamond-crusted creeks. The birds are celebrating some … Continue reading
Vanessa Redgrave thought whatever
separates life and death
is tiny as the sliver of a fingernail.