we drove on through
the blue seal of morning as the turbines
turned and winked out their hearts

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

Even as the sun warms the concrete
the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.

We stop doing dishes while
a mile unwinds
from the tree outside.

I like to think I’m also sprung,
released from the furnace knocks,
done with the heavy meat stews
and salty soups.

I count my homes—
those of my scattered youth
the sanctuary of our young family
the intermittent rest stops
of apartments and vacations.

my father holds
his favorite drink

Listen to me: I know
the winter gloom in
mid-summer…

I tap at the alphabet while a single deer
taps at the dirt beyond the brush
on the far side of the tree line.

I don’t
know why
I’m in the garden
kneeling on dirt

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

you know that
baby swallows make silver ripples
in wild rivers to court reeds?

Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.