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Natureexpand_moreThe dark creatures are still, yet they give life to the whole mountain.
When she passes you, her name is a bright blue phrase on your tongue.
Below, the kiss silently maneuvers our bodies closer to the rose bed.
Gurov reflected, “it wouldn’t be a bad idea to make her acquaintance.”
These are notes that please the great heart of man.
Thus is the way of leaves the secret ones that no one sees, not even me
The house of our relationship is a fort. Blanket fort. Tree fort.
It was up airly and down late with him, and the loom never standin’ still.
If I also could be lifted into the sky, I’d wish to be blown apart.
The eyes looked into his own with a meaning, a malign significance.
Here was rot and immemorial night. And death. Death above all.
How shocking it was to discover these real things were not real.
Merwin discovered and restored eighteen acres of abandoned land.
He handed us sticks of dynamite, rolled in wax paper like taffy.
I woke in surprise to your breath warm as your skin on my neck.
He whispers words that sound as miraculous as the skinned fish of the clouds my father writhed like pentecostal snakes while he drove drunk
Ron Carlson
This storm scares me. A foreign climate occupies the land.
No fountains to quench the thirst between rounds of tag.
I managed to talk sensible Alice into a little pink outfit and high heels.
At night everything feels. Even a river feels its way through the woods.
She is eight years old and doesn’t recognize the word divorce.
Sometimes a story is like a beehive. Sometimes an idea is like a poem.
Are these poems just cumbersome or a critique of cumbersomeness?
The noiseless trees, the insentient breezes that are not there.
Stop her there, on the bank of knowingness, just before spring.
She must know she was a mistake, what they call now a surprise.
Years they sought her, whose crew left on the water a sad Welsh hymn.
Each night I curl my body around a small piece of silence.
The pain lithified to numbness, and she recalled the time of his courtship.
