is interloper, is fur of russet
and iron, is light-footed, is real
in my alley
I weep easily and often
now for the world.
headlights painting streaks of rain
on my pale window, and still
the torrent comes faster, faster—bluster, leak,
I wish I could say
I lay your body under the honeysuckle
the day you crossed over, let vine and wisp
hang nectar all around you.
The first week in the first year of the plague,
when we told ourselves there was no plague,
the flowers were more than willing
to confirm our opinion.
‘Tis wealth enough of joy for me
In summer time to simply be.
we wriggled and followed
the path upstream,
coigned in its armbends, whinsill, lime,
humped heather, deer grass
As a child
I combed black rocks of a jetty
prying starfish from pools
shadow seeks shadow,
then both leaf
and leaf-shadow are lost
He has flown headfirst against the glass
and now lies stunned on the stone patio,
nothing moving but his quick beating heart.
bouquets of cicada brides whose courtship
made the sky sing so in May.
The wedding music stopped, these are left,
to be caught by maidens in seventeen years.
Consider the hummingbird
How like the mind it is
The soul is hungry in spring, and there is only the crisp, silent air to feed it.