The world today, flooding intermittently. Dry now, the sky is being willfully obtuse about just what it is— the white of an eye, a means of containment. Nothing about it says finite. The city seen from a moderate distance— old glass, new glass, die-cut gulls. It’s a low ceiling that we operate under. In copper-hued plate glass, the transit of clouds.
Sometimes dismay the price of ownership— this unruly garden not soft or settled,but built up with intent and too-rough edges. Still, a weed can flower, and sunlight descends again, low, springy, rupestrine— still, joy in organic geometries. I pick out rocks with a rusty trowel, an indigo jay shouts out its indigo call, but harbingers are tricky— I don’t know know know know know, either, creating so many holes and filling them all with seeds […]
A trepidatious return this spring, sun-balm then savage wind, no attempt at medleys– heartening in a way to be so unmoved, but not dispassionate– in lashing of rain some deep defiance. Let it come. An eerie squall-light descends, a sulfur sky, inscrutable glass– such unapologetic tones.
OPTIONAL POETRY 