She holds her hands before her face So she cannot see, but feels instead. Her open palms take and gratefully receive Without the barrier of sight. She grows in a sequestered place, Where the dark is warm, Where laughter creeps along the floor And winds through her fingers in ribbons; Where, eyes closed and bathed…
From the Book of Broken Odes Your sadness flutes through dowel holes cut by woodpeckers in flaking sycamores. They flutter bark and call the maple’s sons, the ones as well with sap and weep. And on their tears the mayfly’s tripwire legs alight to sup, its wings still – (flimsy fanatic, hardened heretic) – And…