In the spider and on the web. On the branch
and in the pothole. Yellowed grass, wilted
fern, blackened growth. On the skeletal
stems of black-eyed Susans and in dawn's
stretch. The glint of street lights. The sibilant
mulberry behind blinds. Empty sky. Listen
to these old windows,
how they lend themselves to rattle.
from Lit Windowpane
The God Chain
Priest River, Idaho
Anchor sheen trout tulip under yellow wood flicks its goose aside,
holds hot the malediction kitchen march, oh marvelous me puddle
pulsing the river's run. He speaks static, flicks the bristled coat and
ducklings disappear easier into every field's floor. It is an arrow
bath clogging and cracking the code under the milk skirt snow.
from cadaver dogs
Two incredible books. Plus time spent roaming a swath of Woodlawn
Cemetary. Amazing statues. Lots of angels. Not every angel is demure or
holy, as Milton knew.