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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.

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

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.

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.

If he was going to pick me up, the least he could do was look at me.

Some days are stretched so taut it feels like changing might break us. We feed the baby bitter melon, flower pepper, bloodroot beet. The first snow comes in January, fresh gauze over an old wound.

The grass is defiant, wild, and reluctant to take any shape.

I walk across the fields with only a few young cows for company.

Ten years ago, when I was in college, my father divorced my mother and said he wanted me to become responsible for her. That is why I fled to Italy.

Anchored off Biscayne Bay my father’s wooden skiff swings easy.

I want these things to have another life, like the old garden behind our house.

We wondered at their habits and gave them little poems for names.

I’d wager a cicada is fond of a high note on a synthesizer.

Just sugar cubes and a crop for you. Salt licks to smart the tongue.

Your jumps are numbered. It is better to be a bird without altitude.

It’s been months, and the fields are good for nothing but night talks.