Language is a song of loose coins, spilling down
from the fountains. Then bells of the Duomo ring
out over Firenze.
You said, Name the world.
So I said, I call this a spangle tree.
How about, you said, a rose-hued spangle tree.
That’s beautiful, I said.
Let’s name the world together.
Grandma lived to be ninety-three
and wore the fabric of that tale to a soft sheen
with her retelling. Where does the past lie?
Sweet hyssop and the sweltering hives
from which sail bees, their resolute flight
into July, into my garden.
And still there is shelter in shade
and pummeling rain, in the produce aisle
with its mounds of lemons, nectarines.
presses each broken thing like an autumn leaf between pages where I watch the pace of disintegration, lacy residue. Rain writes within it a sloppy welter—the neighbor shaking her … Continue reading
The moon salts the sky with stars and the only sounds in the house are the dog’s breath and the furnace’s belch through old pipes. On this coldest night of … Continue reading
into an avenue of steam, the streetlights glow a slick sheen. And down this road, this August night thick as wet wool, a car rattles. The body dreams itself heavy, … Continue reading
~in memory of Brendan We make each other a mooring, early evening here in the small world, where gods grumble and root in the dirt and the red … Continue reading