Let me be quick
to rise when the world
is slow, when the bird
tarries in the guava tree.

74

The women used to sit one
behind each other on the steps:
talking, cleaning lice
from their hair.

75

In town after town tonight,
streets are heavy with grief,
lined with bodies
of the drowned.

76

The moon says, I am not
a gypsy with a crystal
ball. I am not the cold
coal burning in the grate.

77

I shine my light
through every
unbearable
field.

78

Only a fool would save
the drink umbrella.
Only a fool would dance
at the brink of the world.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Fishing boats
and trawlers,
broken masts
and mains—

68

What’s more
inexhaustible
than what can’t
be controlled?

69

Salt crusts, split beams
and backyard shrines:
ledger of the lost
along the seawall.

70

Every stone
will bear a name,
a list that will
go on and on—

71

Trestle and bridge,
fountain from which
the water has fled:
yet we are all drenched.

72

Someday you’ll go on hands
and knees, peer through
the stained glass of
the miniature church.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

On the grass before
noon: a hundred circles
with the sheen
of pearl—

62

Such grit
that roughens
the dwelling-
place of years—

63

And if I hardly
gave you gifts,
that is their
rarity.

64

A metal
goblet will
hold water
colder.

65

Tears are a sign
the body misses
its last warm
appointment.

66

The sky’s wide
boat, this seat
under the tree
that silvers me—

In response to Via Negativa: Oysterous.

Curved timber
cruck, arms of wood
meeting at the center:
a holding in or out.

56

Flowering
storm, larger
than the compass
of an archipelago.

57

Briefest brush
of mouth to ear or chin:
one leaf to tell of how
I’ve missed you.

58

Rooster crowing
in the yard: a caravan,
our caravan of ragged
belongings!

59

Hands and mouths
to help us empty
storehouses filled
with grain and sound.

60

In the barn
I found a book
held open: a planet
with one rose.

In response to Via Negativa: Tithe Barn.

Pebble by pebble
it becomes
possible to widen
the river’s eddy.

50

On its banks
tall grasses hide
such monuments
of sound.

51

Listen in
the deep of night:
what softens
the cheek of silence?

52

Do not say
farewell— this
bridge is not
for burning.

53

I miss most
the flavor
of mornings
at ease.

54

First the dough
must rise; you punch
it down so doubled,
it can rise again.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Madam, I’ll serve
your interests,
contingent on
your currency.

44

A pearl will do
as well as a bond—
The first one heralds
a string: loss leader.

45

Implacable
promise: your word
on this piece
of paper.

46

Twilight
of perforations
that we call
stars—

47

Have a seat
at my table
and tell me what
you would not eat.

48

On the Day
of the Dead, we collect
the softest bones
of tallow.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Dear mannequin,
you wear your red-
sashed burlap tunic
with aplomb.

38

What time is it
when the soul
calls out in its
loudest voice?

39

Dear honeyed
skein of years,
dear seasons
of salt and fog.

40

We pass from one
encumbrance to another
while the radio
plays a waltz.

41

And all night,
bonfires burn
like sacrifices laid
along the road.

42

The wheel that turns
is not on anyone’s
side: beer and goat meat
today, burnt toast tomorrow.

In response to Via Negativa: Book of Martyrs.

“The memory of the wicked
shall rot” — I come to collect
chaff and ash, splinters doubled
from being waterlogged.

32

A little bell made
of moneybags tied around
your neck: Abogado
de campanilla.

33

When you grow up, do not seek
to be a lawyer, soldier, governor,
doctor, king. Grow something
real with your hands.

34

How many cubits to the east?
What depth the wall-posts and what
height the beams? Do not forget
hallways of branching dreams.

35

I kissed the ground
and touched my forehead
to the dust then rose
and gathered up belongings.

36

Happy the cricket
on the window-ledge:
everything dark but for
one bar of fallen light.

In response to Via Negativa: L'esprit d'escalier.


Ivory sheen, coiled snake
bone in her hair: not whimsy,
not curio nor afterthought. En-
jambed, but not embellishment.

26

Blight on matter
as soon as kissed
by air: so therefore,
love, unpetal me.

27

Folded in my teacup,
swung over the brink.
But here you are, here
you are, here you are.

28

Calaveras: sockets
full of marigolds,
tongues and frosted
window teeth of sugar.

29

Me and me and me,
I and I— Go lie
amid a populace
of bees.

30

What spirits hide, unseen
within the fern? And so
we bend our heads: Your pardon
please as we pass through.

In response to Via Negativa: Homunculus.

The sound of eight blades
sharpened on a stone:
metal and ice, a river’s
corrugated sheet.

20

Bones of a small animal
beneath the rafters—
follow a thread of light
to find the door.

21

Fine dust sieved
makes another carpet:
months, minutes,
sifted through a grid.

22

Last night I fixed
a crown of vivid roses
and death’s heads
in my hair.

23

Pattern of leaves—
on their surface, holes
made by invisible
industry of moths.

24

Drip of a faucet
on milky porcelain:
bead by bead
by bead.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.