In the low tight soil

cramping out breath

sun watertight

stones as they landed

time ago

another tree grows.


The plane

so rampant

no doubt pressed against this clay

another leap to live

how it goes on

even when it’s over.






This morning’s wash is full of
the iron tang scent of it
all the fabric whiteners
can’t soften it from the clothes.

I hope the sunlight will set it right
but if they say you stink at school
tell them it was you mother bleeding through the night,
tell them you are made from it.

Washing in winter


And sometimes РI will tell you РI sat and waited for the washing to dry

in the last slit of sunlight

before the cold comes cramping down

birds go mad with last calls

the neighborhood is magnified

(a child sings and slams a door and the song stops sudden:

not so the dogs who take the opportunity

to stretch their voices out to moonrise)

and the frost whores all over everything –

leaving thrills of ice like algal bloom on the sheets, on the hedges and fences and flowers

and on the shoes left on our window sill.

All our love, my dear and small footprints in your own morning.

May the birds call out your name and all your dogs come home.