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forget how to count starting with your own age starting with even numbers

You can dive still see half the Spanish castle, its stone pile a trap

The leaves repeat my fall in choruses more ancient than my own.

Janet Burroway

I dream we ride together in a Subaru to the county fair.

Buckled by time and tides, the pier fails halfway to the deeps.

He wondered how others lived with their sins. Maybe they never did.

“Feathered Cup” by Shangyang Fang. A complete poem in a single screen.

The light, returning, nudged me from sleep, and walked me to dinner.

My husband shovels snow from flower beds back onto the drive.

Motionless at the window. Forehead beaded with a line of fevered moons.

Because I am lonely, I am always shying away from the mirror.

She examines her left hand, finger by finger, gripping and pinching the flesh.

We serve them far more than they serve us. Service animals, we all are.

Order gardening clogs, then realize you feel like a runaway nurse.

At night the wildfire swelled the blurred interior like a lung of light.

You’re too far from where I sit to admire your finery up close.

We roasted mastodons. Designed skewers, ovens, steampits.

I’d have guessed the winter this way, every bitter plum already singing.

By the kitchen sink, my aunt held a fish as if holding the Holy Body.

Fishing with Dad guaranteed two days of just us and made me special.

I slipped one sparrow black and shivering into my mouth.

i was a wild thing down by the river, quiet like wild things are.

If every present
is possible, how can we have eyes to see?

Exhausted, androgynous, delirious, I delight in my many parts.

our minds are not the same if they were the same you would be here

The stars begin to turn clockwise, freeing us of all consequences.

I dug a hole in you; I jumped (here is the church, here is the steeple).

Before there was air, sublime silence. There was no one not to hear it.

Elsewhere, perhaps here too, regimes stagger, a congress ends.