Like a cross stitch
I tied down your limbs
thread by thread
preventing you from flying

“No tree grows all the way to heaven,”
a darling end to a bible story
or Lenten play beginning
you might say;
a betrayal of trust

It’s really easy to forget
To put it all out of your mind
That you might be living with a debt which could be called in
Any time by that unforgiving debt collector

My Spectacles watched me seek for them
lowered their head with mine.
A clear silhouette of every
Twist
Turn
Bend

No idea where it came from,
The pipe-threading lathe
Just presented itself
On the job when it was needed.
From the truck and tools,
We rested the Mule near the alley

As near-death experiences go,
it was one of the best.
What more is there to tell?

We’re on our last legs, and the legs are last to go;
the best metaphors die young, reborn as cliches.

Shards of invention over
crisp dirt :: secreted
mouths whisper about
asexual
union and definitions :: small

Picking at the bones,
they feed from residual
ligaments left
post quiet carving

began with disinterest
proceeding to tsks tsks then
disregard

Like a title that keys no theme
Except an atmosphere, I slip into my clothes.
A doorknob, a checklist, a podcast
On an unsolved murder.

There is an army of ghost trees ringing the coastlines of the world.
Once verdant, evidence of a healthy environment,
now leafless, bleached white in death,
phantoms of the forest that once was.

This will help you to remember
what a forest was. This one, North Temperate.
Might have been where we are standing.
Here, adjust the strap
around your forehead, rest this over
the bridge of your nose. Click the button.
See.

Each corner of a globe
With no corners
Born of the sea as
Liquid or solid
In dances with humans
And dances between humans
Fear and hope meet in their own dance
As the earth cries

Each insect turns a fraction on its axis, a cocooned child shifting in a half-sleep,
oblivious beyond cool mud to flames of wildfires as they streak across the hills
of Paradise.

when they’re born…
they g r o w
they m o v e
crawl and
c a
l v
e

Looking deep into my child’s eyes,
I see both my ancestors and
my descendants, I fall
into a meditation about Mother Earth…

Zero degrees outside while cozy warm inside
Mother opens apartment’s bedroom window
reels in creaky clothesline of dried laundry

reprieve thickening
in threatening
the still winter light
encrusted as a high
gray sky in thickness
turning in another silence
as in the waiting

On the ride to work I try to remember; did I make my bed?
—Wonder if I love myself, wonder if I care about my children’s children
Wonder where every plastic bottle went—each one I have sucked from and sent
on its journey, perhaps to landfill, and What does that pile look like

I think I’m sleeping, night long, more than I think,
And days blur like leaves in a pitch-long fall,
while clocks run on with numbers that always blink,

then flicker backwards. I close my eyes and sink
to dreams…

Had enough of it,
pushing along with
his job and family
and gave up.

Game over.

Good old dad,
always liked trains
and that’s where he went.

My skin told me first, when I saw his picture. The cold memory of touch
a frantic messenger, almost swifter
than the optic nerve. My body remembers.

So I got into the shower, ran it scalding, breathed
the vapor like medicine, the mist a place to lose myself,

He says his favorite clouds
all wear size seven shoes. He knows she believes
she once saw a paisley rainbow
and will never forget it.
She wears size seven shoes
and her tears can be torrential,
yet they can still nurture

Unsure how many lives I’ve taken.
Hornets, spiders, the boy hardened – unbelonging
in the furling roots.
But this isn’t about the bodies,
it’s their shadows, seeping through the openings,
weighing the bones with dark.