She wasn't sure about heaven, / but she believed in birds. / On walks she’d stop to watch / a skein of geese
a fish / finds its way / up my line / and into my mind, / whispers / to me
slip off those little red mary janes / the detested damp socks / edged in chafing lace
No more lilies under tungsten / to align a dead end run— / wild with river trap
The heroes have autographed the table again / with their glasses, rings of condensation / in looped cursive circles that interrupt / / each other’s epics.
God forget-me-not / come replenish come wounded blood-let weary / undone fallen / trailing crimson promise
He in his godlessness does not see a settling.
I would send / / the song welling in the bird, but keep / the seam of gold silent / / in its earthen bed.
whispering / through the keyhole / the same question / night after night