January 2017

Lit with strange carpentry magic — 
they build time-shares in her head. They carve
names deep in wood, erect beams of metal to hold up
the invincible defense of a bad history. They mourn
what’s subjective. They are shutters closed.
Sometimes I imagine such men in...

They flared on the sea green
of the Subaru that seemed netted
under the unleafing maple,

a limestone moulage cut
from a quarry and cast
in immemorial arrest behind

Pete’s Absolute Asphalt truck,
throttling still when I alighted
and said, besides, in Aleppo once —

to nothing but the wind
photographed...

Somewhere, people must still do things like fetch
water from wells in buckets, then pour it out
for those animals that, long domesticated, would
likely perish before figuring out how to get
for themselves. That dog, for example, whose
refusal to leave my side I...