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Never takes much, a fingertip’s touch, or beak-brush of prey-probing bird.

Snow on blue roof tiles—sleeping village awakened by waves.

Beggars know to emerge when you’ve more than enough to give.

He’d reenlisted in ’64; he would not go home until the War was won.

Summer’s erosion has begun, all that taking the waves from shore.

The people awakened, rose up, raged at tyrants garbed in uniforms.

He’d been lost and tripping vividly on some speckled acid for days.

All my life, I’d been shy, and I wasn’t about to change that.

Out by the road was her son standing without a stitch of clothing.

Christopher Woods

Like a god I shook their tiny worlds, terrible but ineffectual storms.

Gravity bends together this planet and your life, made of glass.

I hope I do not baffle or bluff. I hope I will not raise your hopes.

The grass is always greener in the cemetery, was a joke I made to Jed.

Her will is resolute, and he knows enough not to challenge it.

You’ll find me here in the peach orchard, the most I can muster.

The clearest memory was when his father shot a grizzly.

Now I’m no longer the buzzards glooming over the mango tree.

I bought two for my wedding, planted them in pots on the patio by the pond.

He probably had an order. Ludes, Dexis, Black Birds—who knew.

A Midwestern man is never without his knife. Half of us carry guns.

Each drifting snowflake falls nowhere but here and now

The willows crack as the startled deer flee into a deeper darkness.

The owl was a white that could not be compromised by any other color.

They know whoever passes on the curving road just by the footstep.

In the reign of the cold, in the name of the sorrow, in the flame of the hark.

My imagination has been weak lately, caught in some half-world.

Through all this the sands kept vigil, harboring blood and bones.

I was created in His image I had dominion over every thing

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens her first rose