In Which Resurrection Is Dissected

When it comes the light will wear a silver tooth.
When it comes the raindrops will change to windmills.
There are several explanations.
There are several misunderstandings.

When it comes all rocks will turn to silt and honey.
When it comes every mirror will reflect every other mirror.
There are several subterraneans.
There are several institutions.

When it comes even spring will split its face.
When it comes all memory will begin to flicker.
There are several traditions.
There are several administrations.

When it comes we will put a paper bag over our heads.
When it comes the facts will outweigh the mystery.
There are several decisions.
There are several dilutions.

When it comes the spark will flight in several directions.


This Area

This area has been fenced off.
You are not allowed in this area.
This area will be closed indefinitely.
We’re making improvements to this area.
This area’s overhaul is long overdue.
Just wait until you see this new improved area.
This area has a no trespassing sign attached to it.
There is no trespassing in this area.
This area will not be broken into.
We’ll catch the perpetrators of the break into this area.
This area’s size is expanding.
There will be no limits to this area.
This area will be unrecognizable.
You will need to do a double take upon viewing this area.
This area has been paved over.
Vehicles are not permitted through this area.
This area’s reconstruction has been postponed because of rain.
Have you seen the direction they’re taking this area.
This area may be traversed only by wearing a hard hat.
It has been precisely 27 days since a lost time accident in this area.
This area is well-known for its record of no incidents.
I wouldn’t let my child play for long in this area.
This area resembles a playground on a bad day.
Somehow this isn’t what I envisioned when I pictured this area.
This area is well-endowed.
We’re raising matching funds for this area.
This area has been neglected for far too long.
Will someone please tell me the way to this area.


My Life in the Theater

That cloud on the stage
is only a prop. A piano chord
sounded, leaves it floating,
suspended in resonance.

In the next act we have
to change the set, something
about a bed tossed back
and forth across an open sea.

Under the stage lies the orchestra
pit. We haven’t used it in
decades because it swallowed all
the music, and we became

accustomed to sound. Like
the curtains in the back, they’ve
been tattered for awhile,
all those exits and entrances.

We’ve been meaning to take
all the seats out, so no one
can sit. If they wanted a respite
they would have to come down

and use the stage. A sort
of participatory drama, you
may have heard of it. That’s
what the cloud is doing there.


Barren. Branch.

Result. A halt.
Look me in
the eye.

Birth. Your breath.
to refrain.

Phrase. A Praise.
Open the door
to backyard.

Sleet. The sheet.
Wait your
turn in line.

It’s Spring. Love’s Spring.
A pattern
of rain.

Begin. Often.
A slit
becomes a roof.



If I asked you
a question, broken
with hesitant breath

would you listen
to the gaps as
much as the gist

and answer with equal
pause, perhaps
a means

of communion, relation
a space
untrained and tired

yet unlike the vowels
that beg you begin,
shut your teeth

with breath, with quiet
and close the space
between us

with space.


Simmer Is Smolder

The fire starts a bird
swallowing its own tail or
stairways winding across
abbreviated weather.

At the end of all this straining
a wrench a basket
likeness or water
inevitable distress of wind.

Pulse is the open
body only a curve or
flight tending to spray
a quiver of feathers.

The key has changed
kiss a sprout of umbrellas
leave me sore with dew
a circle in the mouth.


I Was Going to Use the Typewriter

We turned the chairs to face each other.
In a moment there were memory of sound.
The scraping of leaves against the birds,
against windowsills.
When I was a child I was most afraid
of opening the curtain to a face on a ladder.
Between the keys of the typewriter is untold depths.
A watchmaker god, the clock wheels spinning.
Often I am permitted to return to a meadow.
There the boughs bend but never break into song.
Attributed to caterpillars, facing a journey of grass.
The violins are changeling into crickets, into species.
The shellac is rusty from a dog begging for treats.
Winter came late this year, at least we told ourselves.
If there are raisins in this dish I’m not having it.
You’re crying because the guitars accused of genius.
Wait to decide on college until you’ve found
the right pond.
Across the gate there’s different road noises, untold.
The holes in this paper make concentric circles.
If you pull the window shade too quick, you’ll never
get it down, and won’t you be sorry
when the time comes for you to be making love.



defers fence
our first fruits



I blend into two
refract a mosaic

circle a vast sphere

now museum
now you don’t

outside the snow persists
inside the blanket

if skin diminished
its element

light only a mirror
poor dust languishing

under the carpet
cardboard doubles

witness to years
these piles will topple

under the weight of
their leaning

I give in
to blending



Do not
put on

the cross
he is

the king
but that

he says
he is.

I have

that which
I have

It is