Rob the bed
to set the table,
flower heads, an armful
of scent—
I trail an absence of flora.
I rend the living page.
I paste myself wet
into a book of days—
too late I guess
this lifetime much
to change

To live within dangerous reach
of the sea
set down
the life I know
let go my grip
and press my cheek
to the sand—
sea wind
and wave crash
reach me less
here where the sound
flies high overhead—
a shallow calligraphy
sky writ,
a pair
of pelicans.

Volumes of air and light
in this house we built
for art.
Only after she sinks
exhausted to the floor
says the guard
can we carry her out.

I sing spare
in present time
with gaps
and leaps of knowing

pin clean sheets
on a line
high enough
no cloth need touch
the earth

run between shapes
the wind takes
an animating breath
imagined waves
almost/already dry

Some months since
my sight goes dim
come evening—
no parsing print
close-held.
Small surprise then
down the lane at dusk
I cross abrupt
a butterfly,
unexpected velvet dark
in angles
toward my face,
soft-catch
in my hair
a moment more
then disappeared
and I’m new
aware—o!
a common microbat

No world absolute
but we let the wild wood undisturbed
grow close
and the leaves
shifting green
throw gaps of sky
inside—we swim even now
in filtered light,
tree reflections
on your face,
leaf-shallows on the dinner plates.

The baby cypress trees
may someday be a wall of green
but now they point
just delicately
at the flight path overhead,
at the slender softening contrails
the last jet left.

Little hen lay young silkie eggs—
at your tender age we find
occasional cream-shelled eggs about
(half-usual size!).

How you like
to scratch a nest
under the bramble hedge
on the sunny side.

Crack a mini egg
and feel a pang—
none of us crave
breaking up
your casual clutch
but a doll’s breakfast
seems cause enough
to celebrate.
To this pleasing end
we steal from you
and give thanks.