May 21, 2011 § Leave a comment

going through the house opening windows —
one still locked from winter

[a letter]

April 19, 2011 § Leave a comment

Midnight —
I post myself like a letter to the next day
but with no signature

[yard trees]

March 27, 2011 § Leave a comment

Greener now than they used to be:
The yard trees now that the house has gone.


March 19, 2011 § 4 Comments

Common chicory

Image via Wikipedia

if the chicory is on the road
so am I

traveling so far that the wild carrots become
Queen Anne’s Lace


Nightcrawlers pray for America

March 19, 2011 § Leave a comment

In the dark of noon
a roadside bait shop sign
glows at us


Even the animals of the earth,
who live so deep
they only know of our weather
when the rain carries it down to them,
pray for us

as towers fall
like candles through the air

First House

March 19, 2011 § Leave a comment

bug of the day

Image by urtica via Flickr

slowly the leafy green stem round budlike flower I thought
     to choose to build under the shade of it
     in the cup of branches
     the house safe fort
     all by myself and the kitchen door
alone on its twig in the holly shade
     to build
     I get a blanket
     I get a cup
     I get a dish and a book and away
the white budding popping here and there
     waking up after my day
     to find my house had changed itself
along in its flesh and deep wherever it was
     and I stood
     and I knelt
     and I looked
it was the cackling crisp wasp worm
     pasted with eggs
     and arched
     and reared
     and waved
     at me
and screamed and one of us screamed

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March 5, 2011 § 5 Comments

watching the trees drift westward
through the rain

[birthday haiku]

March 5, 2011 § Leave a comment

rain washing the morning clean

guns on Sunday

March 3, 2011 § Leave a comment

Six rifles, six shotguns: I grew up with them. They remained unremembered until a year ago when the pond by the house was drained. The bottom of the pond was lined with a couple of inches of lead shot.

Six rifles and six shotguns in the den, not far from the TV and the fireplace. Their stocks were of the same wood that lined the walls and the floor. All the wood shined.

I touched one once, proving to my father at thirteen that I would never be able to shoot skeet one winter Sunday at the skeet range that he and my uncle had built around the pond. The clay pigeons whizzed past faster than I could aim the gun and I emptied two shells’ worth of shot in the direction of the water. The rest of my Sundays were spent inside.

The house is gone and the pond drained, the layer of lead shot and a few empty shotgun shells there for everyone to see, And now it has been a year, and the lead shot hauled away and contained. And now I remember the Sundays and the guns and my father who has been gone one more year.


February 2, 2011 § Leave a comment

far to the south
the catbirds starting to fly

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