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I wondered if the coyotes and deer were mourning the loss of Steve.

We know that we were lied to, the disaster was worse than we feared.

Let those shadows sift the spirits of their children from the silt.

Whitman may just mean: it is pretty cold, but there’s always colder.

she was right—hurricane being the name of the feeling, the twist of it.

I could throw one of these rocks at the moon and watch it fall.

and there I was five-foot-four and most way old enough to drive

The raven cocked its black eye, dipped its beak in the red pool.

It was as if we were shedding our very selves to become someone else.

Charge the ground till it glitters. It was God’s pleading in that rink.

I want to bring the duality of us together, not spar with language.

The irreversible ink stain breaking the face of whatever we skate on.

Instead of attunement, I was given a pair of size 6 Toughskins.

What a noise it must have made long ago. It’s not just me saying this.

Frank Avery came into the kitchen. In his left hand he carried a .22 pistol.

Tonight’s moon has dropped its shawl. I’m in the yard again, waiting.

In the republic of pain, we bloom ice bags and crutches on limbs.

Left Behind climbed the Octopus Tree to find the source of fire.

No matter how hard I played, it was like I was performing inside a vacuum.

He spoke of the river’s origins as though telling of the birth of a god.

I know it’s a problem, that I prefer to think instead of live.

I slide my heart inside a folded sheet of paper and tape down the opening.

Another light is growing out of their shadows. You can hear it.

Desire whittled me a tool I’d never seen but knew how to use.

I stay gripped to pine and the sugar of existence runs through you.

After having been riddled with stars: I lost the light that was lost.

It’s wrong to say the lightning is pink is nothing other than to say it’s not.

The itch of hay dust was the unscratchable itch of desire.

Call it an echo. Like a sketch of the moon as the moon lies in silvery forms.