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Unrecognized local number texting
‘Why did you change to “might come”

this weekend?’ I froze. Daydreaming
Of visiting my father on his 85th birthday.

Death’s number is always local, no
Matter how far away he seems.

And yes, he saw my mother fall,
Perforated inside, and went into the

Woods with eyes half seeing,
To the retired cop’s house for help.

And sometimes I see him there
Among the scrub oak, out

Of options, unsure, trying to lead
Death away from the house

And that was the time I came.

Carters Lake on A Last Summer Weekend.

People dispersing into the colors of sky and leaf. Crows exchanging fragments of thought. Who is in the world, and who is of it? I don’t want to quote the entire poem, so here it is. Thanks to Jessica Mock for allowing the reblog. //JS

Jessamayann

The amish people were in faded blues like a sky over an empty corn field at the end of summer when the harvest has left only dust and heat in the middle of no where.

The women had on hats and long dresses, boots laced up past their ankles. The girls walked almost along the edge of the water but they never touched it. They rippled away from the lake like little waves, becoming in themselves water, as if to remain separate from the external element itself. How strange it must feel to be in the world but not of it.

Fragments of blue dresses and sky disappear into the trees and I can hear an entire thirsty world wrestling against the breeze, not knowing where it is coming from but knowing where they are going.

After they are gone, the empty beach is a deserted cornfield. Crows fly in…

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Introduction to those beneath the flowers

mantis_spring

Introduction to those beneath the flowers

The ceiling fan on a May night
A watch that lost its hours

The year was a broken bone
And its slow mending

Like the peonies after being cut
To the ground rise up

And when no one is looking
Distracted by the growth and green

And the pink and white and red petals littering
The sidewalk and the heat

Rising suddenly they are there the praying
mantis and her thousand sisters

Each poised like a timeless statue
On a leaf that didn’t exist a month before

Sunday the 8th [from “The Week,” a series of 7 poems leading up to Friday the 13th]

snow8th

Sunday the 8th

The way the weather ends
And begins a discussion

About everything surviving
The weather. The way

Unexpected snow falls
Like a silhouette of spring

Sitting patiently as we trace
Its shadow. The way the sun

Arcs like a baseball hit so far
It will land in the last parking lot

Ever, bounce off the hood
Of the car of the only person

Who stayed for the whole
Game. The way the car’s

alarm, like any true alarm
Will be silent. The way we

Keep score as if it all
Won’t be gone soon enough.

Full

march31moon

Full

It’s after cats but before owls.
The moon fills its pockets and hangs

Out behind the house next door.
Like the sky’s a comfortable side street

You can ride a skateboard or bike along
And find a new favorite skipping stone

You’ll hold onto until the next time
At the creek, which will be days from now

And you think of the curve of her shoulder
As she threw and the water was too

Respectful to swallow the stone, the
Three steps it took on the water and the click

Of it coming to rest on the other bank
And like that you’re rising, full of someone

Else’s light, up above the neighborhood
And the whole world can see you now,

Like the sun on her shoulder,
The whole world can see.

Tarot Basics for Late-Night Walks

Tarot Basics for Late-Night Walks

All things being equal
I will take the eight of swords.

The lady in my dreams sits up the tree
A ways next to the star. The card

For the eight of swords has only four edges
But each is a double edged sword

So you should keep it in your pocket
When approaching trees in dreams.

Before Sleep and Work

Before Sleep and Work



Tonight I will enter these lines in the shared diary of souls

Because I know I must add them before they disappear 

And I alone am responsible for their care.
It will be read by a few, the words all that is clear

But the meaning, while not obscured, different to each

As if we each see the same thing with our own eyeglasses, which focus things perfectly for that one or this one.
If there is a single meaning it will elude me as well

Though I am first to chase it down 

Like a boy chases his shadow.
Then I will be able finally to sleep

And when I wake like a child sitting up

In the surf as dreams cascade around me and fall back into a larger mass of presence,

I will open the double doors of the newspaper office
And say hello and walk up the old stairs wide enough for a car to drive up them

And type out the writing that will reach thousands

And be quickly read, thousands of words instantly forgotten 
Though it must leave a single shape of meaning, even if muddy,

Even if only for a short time, like a child’s castle by the surf
Still standing amid the roar of nearby waves

And the flutter of a newspaper pulled out of a sunbather’s hands by the wind

That will distract other beach goers,

Who will turn as if the shadow of someone familiar could be seen on the sand.