The storm passes without snow.
The car waits loyally in the back lot.

I would always rather be happy than
dignified. Rather held than held
in awe.

my father holds
his favorite drink

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

how does an afternoon turn
on its axis?

and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

I am still waiting for the lion

The sin is existing.

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

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

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

Gravel-scatted hell &
we were blessed to be able
to hold on for even a heartbeat

Even from this distance I could go out
the door it would bang shut and crumble

He has stories that I am not in
anymore. It’s healed this way.

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.