I met your daughter the other day,
New friend to my Willa,
At a gathering for new college students.
Our girl will be far away.
Your Farah is farther from you.
Outside the Nehalem public restrooms
Clutched walking sticks kicked from the
Tourist gait, all in gloomy imagination:
Faces
(Now imagine rage)
Laid onto discarded receipts for the
Chocolate chip cookie becoming the
Gravel chipped cheek
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Three Poems
Feathers did not evolve for flight
as every chicken knows, flight
came to be from feathers– the
archaeologists have clearly shown. And
the chicken, they did conclude at last,
first burst from the egg; much later
she found and crossed her road.
The Upper Right Edge
There are some parts of the world
Where writing begins at the upper right edge
For those who know how to write.
My Poetry Refuses Words Today
We meet
only in the humming of the wind in my ears
the smell of winter fog
and the contours of a face,
ever changing with my changing thoughts.
My poetry refuses words today.
Doorway
Hello how are you do I really care
The language changes but the question’s still there
Spare a quarter, a dime a minute of your time
Have you ever hung a sign degrading what little is left of your mind
The Burial Ground, After the Battle
The dead are lined up according to size and type,
as neatly arranged as clothing in a drawer,
records on a shelf,
bullets in a chamber.
A quiescent machine waits to lift them,
its steel mouth clamping one, nipping at mossy skin
and flaccid lichens.
The Scientist Stood
Closer and closer his little spaceship came
To the event horizon of the black hole.
This was his great adventure.
What he had studied all his life
Might today be proven true or false.
Or perhaps not proven at all.
The Denial of Death
I am already a wild ghost – only ever half here. How can something like that die?
Out West, were the fog creeps low and steady over the hills and twists
up the morning dew and rising sun in its fingers, there is enough of what is real
to buoy up this freckled skin forever.
Border Tribute
Some think that Scotland sterts somewhere near Perth
-or close by Edinburgh she at first draws breath.
While speedin’ Heiland –wards tae don a kilt
An’ nod at skirl o’ Bagpipes and the lilt
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