on june 23, 2013,
one of the flying wallendas
crossed the grand canyon
on a tightrope,
fifteen-hundred feet
above the river
running along the bottom.
All articles filed in national poetry writing month
i suppose you have trees
the evening sun set the oak leaves glowing
like bronze against the still-blue sky,
and i wished i could show you
how beautiful it was, could explain
why i wished i could show you.
butter (good)
oh sister, bring out the butter (good)
and place it on the table there
then rest your bones
and welcome home;
for you we’ve always got a chair
music from a distant room
i heard the voice rise and fall,
passion and hesitation twinned in its timbre.
what we call the beginning
morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
what we call the beginning is often the end.
network
the young grass stands slight
and fragile against the cold.
twin
he was the quiet one.
red hair, glasses, freckles;
more sarcastic, or shy,
than his funny brother —
more intense than easy-going.
or, at least, that’s how i
remember him.
streetcar blues
the streetcar opened six years ago,
and everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
(untitled)
it always catches you off guard
that first full look into the face, into the eyes
communion
one sunday morning i went to
a feast of wine and wafers
where the children of God knelt
in reverence and silently received
their meal from white-robed saints.