And yet, the terrible
pulse of the heart keeps arming
and disarming. How
is it not louder than owls
in the trees, hooting all night?
Summer Tankas / 11
In the ocean’s depths
where light seems of hammered iron,
we have no idea
of what it means to have lived
longer than consciousness itself.
Summer Tankas / 10
I cannot predict
the end of any story.
I can’t make it up
all the time. But I admire
how art is made from gunpowder.
Summer Tankas / 9
Though most of my teeth
are still my own, I can’t whistle.
Our small appliances
sing little tunes when they start
or stop. They even harmonize.
Summer Tankas / 8
Tiny glass paperweight
rinsed of the sea’s cloudy tint—
I crave blue and purple,
the crooked sweetness of fruit
not quite ripe nor fully bitter.
Summer Tankas / 7
What becomes of us
when the hours all run out?
I want to look back
and not harden into salt.
Not be embodied in grief.
Summer Tankas / 6
All out of season—
Early crepe myrtle showers.
Rain few and far between.
A wave machine drives water
into a pool: no exit.
Summer Tankas / 5
I will live alone
at some point—circled by grass
and trees, hum of bees.
I can only hope for such
grace, if not absolution.
Summer Tankas / 4
Some days I am lint
stuck to every coat pocket.
Some days I find change
to feed the laundry machine,
when I had no higher ambition.
Summer Tankas / 3
What word lives inside
me that will last all season?
The birds say listen.
I haven’t learned to be brave,
to trust the undulations.

