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Testimonyexpand_moreThere are certain defects which well mounted glitter like virtue itself.
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 find lost prayers in the tiny edging around buttonholes.
When we watched jellyfish, Mary Kate wondered if they dreamed of land.
A letter is like a poem, showing the marks of an unwilling composer.
He was shirtless and showcasing a large tattoo of the Twin Towers.
We could hear the parade three blocks before it arrived at our corner.
The current looked cold and brown. It would freeze soon—November.
The summer Victor died, his dad spoke to no one but the canaries he kept.
Before sunrise I counted nine meteors scratching the heavens.
Stable-keeper’s kids know broken then healed, but healed with limits.
The attendant instructs remember, immerse three times.
If you tear down the web it will simply know this isn’t a place to call home.
Third Place
The small, inadequate marks follow the outline, things left behind.
Louise Farmer Smith
The heron returns; the sky veils her stars; then bares them.
Ink to paper, she is inventory, has a price tag. A piece to catalog.
It doesn’t matter who he is. I don’t think about him much anymore.
We know of friends and relatives who have passed away, young and old.
Some days it seems like enough to look in the glass for glazed relief.
The horse is in the air, her legs withdrawn, a diamond shape.
Grant had a lot of buttons on that coat—when he wore it.
My wife had time to form a thought: I have killed my daughter.
“What would Toby do?” is a question that often appears in my mind.
The future of the book began to appear among imaginary woods.
There are parts of a man that are born again with each of his daughters.
It ends with a flourish like smashing a glass in the fireplace.
