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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.

Who mind loved would not rather be loved body too. Since all is all.

Sundays, your wife at Mass, we locked ourselves in my room.

I am going to relate to you the most lamentable love affair of my life.

With your hands in the air you held an infant tightly, trying to save it.

Mistaking water hemlock for parsley, I die hours later in the hospital.

I’m guilty—locating my gratitude against someone else’s suffering.

How High Is the Moon? Too high to be touched, too high to be felt.

The heron returns; the sky veils her stars; then bares them.

The knife in my mother’s hand flakes into penny-stained rust.

Mild nights would have us out of doors—at their opening I am rapt.

I have a maple in the yard and from time to time all is distant.

Salve, salve, Regina. As the song ends, he folds into the fabric seat.

As our friendship declined into torture, the prairie grew hotter.

through the trees, breathless, the grouse leads us steady as a rope.

I must never go to the garden without a heavy stick or a corn-knife.

It’s been a rainy, relatively windless fall, the aspen leaves clinging.

Let me tell you stories about lands far from here where you are absent.

The dope worked, though he felt ashamed using it, smoked in secret.

I make peas and argue with a wall. Something gets stuck like that.

As you watch the picture and begin to notice more, the nothing grows less.

Today brings a blue hour, but the jasmine has been dead for weeks.