the book of poems
came tied up in pink string,
with a little white flower
nestled in the knot.

a life incredible, vivid, excellent.
the book of poems
came tied up in pink string,
with a little white flower
nestled in the knot.
when my heart
shrinks with fear
that things are
beyond my control …
It was hot on the twelfth of July,
and the people all started to fry.
the endurance, you know, was a good brave boat
and I hear the titanic was mighty nice
forgive me for breaking the silence,
but i was getting tired of the way
you were staring straight through me
and out the window toward the garden.
fresh, crisp, light, cool—the
feeling of sleeping between
clean sheets in summer
first, delicate yellow blooms star
the fuzzy branches, hiding among the leaves that drive you wild with their fragrance.
barefoot in summer—
thorns. chiggers. sweetgum balls …
i never can remember what comes after
the path into the pines, whether
the trail loops back to its beginning
or winds even deeper into the woods.
the bees are at the zinnias,
fuzzy bodies buzzing
among pink-freckled petals