Just them and the doe and a wrecked two-door truck, the metal and her body braided. They are digging bloody honey-suckle at
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bells’ first toll after prayers then the tolling space hollowed a spark of grease against seasoned cast iron it tolled of dailiness
pulling into the mouth of Big Rush Run off Route 7, heading north. Hillside exposed like rockbone — a dirt path carved
Because nothing else can contain it: let the paint peel from the elementary school and the cicadas multiply then divide, their bodies
Without knowing, we go looking for something not there. Mushroom hunting in the boroughs under the trees, in leaf & lichen dropped
the roadkill strung on the main drag double as royal flush when the vultures join it becomes a catholic mass the frogs are
Fog, cold-pressed, comes across the fields. This early, the fog spreads itself thick, sloping into the shape of a fear without antecedent.
I dance like that cherry tree branch where midday lingers. I want to touch the wind, turn blue when the rain dies
North Along Dalton Highway Milemarker 115 A man in salmon wears strung bone. When he walks, he eddies dust. Fossil-crusted, all gravel.
Tidal Pull So many creatures meeting on this beach, the air is thick and filled with tiny deaths. Things that lived much