OCCUPANTThe sad mailbox of my extreme youth, what did it ever deliver? The only...
A CRITICPick up your socks. Clean the house once in a while. Go to the dentist. ...
HISTORIANPiles and piles of books, boxes of documents, photographs, bones, shreds of clothes...
YOU WHO KNOWI was just enough bigger that I could wrestle you into the clean straw of the mow...
GRIFFY LAKEI spread my smooth water like a lap and caught the trees' faces where they fell...
BUZZARD
Ten turns above the woods
and then a sliding fall
deep into the breeze.
The buzzard passes shadows
back and forth like a spider
working thread. A web
for all the dead, cast everywhere.
And when she climbs, hauling her
quiet looping steps sunward,
I am pulled towards her rise,
coasting wings fixing my eyes
higher and higher. She must hear,
blown to those altitudes, little things:
breath slowing, the least surge of blood,
the eye straining upward in its socket
to see through the skull.