May 2006

I
The Quyete of Mynde was a tough home assignment,
but you know that. The style seems to be made
with those like us, stranded and crying out
as brittle things in Virgil and Dante
that when you snag them flock...

A place belongs to the one who has most deeply
loved it, they said, has hoped in it beyond
its self-corruption. The land, people, the city

is his if his nights are for recalling it,
calling it in tears...

When the fog slunk in with that salivary,
close, coyote panting, its hue a very
huelessness, like breath huffed on a glass,
like the void stretched and still stretching past
where we’d thought it could, we...