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Like a bird fills a tree, then empties it, glass of sweet green water, light comes from the dark pockets the birds make —If instead I could worship the tired boats that meander like dogs near death, and what if I could? These beautiful dogs are dead. These dogs make beautiful dead. The fog lusts for the open sky and takes it from us. It
When the boy who used to place me repeatedly in headlocks on the school bus then punch me with his free hand died last fall, his obituary listed the names of his children and grandchildren, an almost-biblically impressive collection of begetting. And as I read those names in the paper, I remembered the tireless pistons of the boy’s blows existing in the same continuity of time