a squirrel is hurling insults, and beneath his screeches the cicadas
insist and sigh, insist and sigh, unmoved by his grandiloquent snit.
In the ancient night
the vines of summer choke
breath choke memory
blooms fatten and fall
They say there is a me
who is beautiful but I
snub her in the chalk-dust
hallways, on the bronzed
You are invited to attend a reading by some of the most talented poets in the country. The time is 8pmET Tuesday, March 2.
an emptiness, too, in the bright
flicker of a cardinal on my back fence
Today, a bird invisible among the trees
cries Jericho Jericho Jericho O no O no
all the afternoon long.
Faith is a tattered blanket in this age
of fear: a drape of old skin, soul’s girth
swelling with sugar-song, a late-stage
hymn soldering heaven to earth
Yes, there will be
daffodils in every stanza of this poem
because it is spring in Maine
I’ve been meaning to write about a patch of mossy
frogs’ eggs in a vernal pool, about a single contrail
chalking a blue November sky…
The season was autumn. Threads of smoke
unwound from the chimneys. Every compass pointed
He strides into storms, he wades into pools of silt.