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Some portion of love is braided from lying, from the names of distance.

Mark was spending his life with one of the world’s weaklings.

Welcome, little citizen. Lend me your presence, and I’ll lend you mine.

A goddam mean big sonofabitch boar rooted me in the stomach.

Each evening spent guessing which hemisphere the moon might wreck.

I know that hairs
on my head go singly gray only
by night.

We crunch through the snow in the predawn blue-black cold. He tells me about the stars: Vega, Betelgeuse, Arcturus, Rigel.

I am struck by the otherness of things rather than their sameness.

let me fall through some small bore into your tiny breathing eden

The pumpkins are looking up my skirt, making orange a kind of festive.

The moon rescinds its blessing, rests its forehead on a crosier of ivory.

His eyes rested on the trees. By George, it’s like the garden of Eden.

All the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring.

Maybe that’s what she feels, not stranded, but suspended in time.

Ice and evergreen and sun; three moments arranged for human looking.

she will unchew the dried bulbs of history, spit them at the foot of her post.

You quickly find nothing interests people so much as themselves.

If you’re not having fun, then there isn’t a big impetus to stay alive.

I never entered no-man’s-land by any light brighter than the palest moon.

You move rocks, run water, check the path of mouse and rabbit.

We’re phosphorus, we’re this glowing rock under UV light in the mineral shed.

I like that it’s not me you pine for, and like that I don’t pine for you.

I am weary of the summer’s darkness in this cavern of elms. I wish the leaves would fall, that one wind would blow them away.

I answered, blood rushing like the shadow cast by a cloud of starlings.

The current looked cold and brown. It would freeze soon—November.

Before sunrise I counted nine meteors scratching the heavens.

With my lime-green nitrile gloves I carried him around to the others.

The blackness of her hair seemed to pull the color from her body.

I returned to research a history we’d only known through stories.

Sit beside me. Old country, I am hopeful and troubadour.