windows throb like human organs: blue heart, / maroon brain, gold spleen
Waiting for My Son at Midnight by the Church at the Edge of the Small Woods Where the Kids Get Stoned
Snow and Sand
The wind blows snow across / her cheek, like stinging sand / a crystal burning.
As It Is on Earth
Is it finally fair to say like gods / we make images to pour ourselves into?
When It’s Time to Leave: Conversation 4
If you’re not-Mormon, it’s impossible not to be aware of being not-Mormon. You learn about the Mormons, in order to be not-Mormon, and in order to not be tempted into being married to a Mormon.
Three Poems
My sister casts buttons through / her window—they shadow / / like pills into small ponds / of late winter ice.
Two Poems
like a book left open in the rain; pages wrinkle, / rip and fall before their ambiguities are read.
Meridional overturning
In the freezing season, the lacerated places breed / / bright ice in matrices and lattices, glittering, / highballing.
Ain’t No Man
I see men as trees, walking. If men were trees, if our cities were forests, our towns dense groves, what kind of world would we then make?
Two Poems
You carry it in on your palm-stretcher, / a brittle-spit, a kicked-out life-in-a-stick, / / all stuttering beak and shattered spindle, / like a rickety dollhouse staircase.
Psaltery & Lyre 