Maybe, a certain white-crowned sparrow / carries our mother’s name into the dark
Heaped like spring fleeces, like gold / dragon-hoarded, the waters wait for her will, / they wait to be laid down, like wine without vintage.
God is like a poet, Kierkegaard once said to / the confessor’s ear of his journal
I want to see it / splay in its glimmer bed
Turn the ship around / for the holiness / of open water: / / your beam and mast, / magnificent.
Bed-shape all day, window by the freeway's / carnival whispering . . .
Late for a hike / but still I go, / headlight and hat / in pocket — the defiance / of time on a Sunday — / to dissolve myself / in bishop pine
Congratulations to all of our nominees!
Congratulations to all of our Best of the Net nominees!