Trapped in a canyon of time/ an inescapable echo/ surrounds me,/ a voice that stirs/ twists the

Not April, not coffee, not purple/ tulips opening on the table, not/ you, or her, or even the early hour

It is a ghostly obelisk of a tree, / breathless among the paused / leafless gray soldiers of the forest.

Winter’s teetering and/ certain to fall, with sap/ rising in wooding hills,/ new-leaf-pungent, silted

Things want to appear/ from their long disappearance/ but fear themselves too forgotten/ to return

Your suitcase is sitting on the stairs/ halfway up, halfway down,/ worn to the color/ of wheat

we live at the edge of time/ there is no time beyond us/ except what we make/ our transient

If I stop, I’ll fall asleep: this is the secret / to adulthood nobody tells us. So much / of life is about

The salmon dying in the woods stopped him. / And the blackened fruit of it on the mudbank / beside

When did it first happen? / Surely if we had known in time, / we would have woven / the garden flowers

The bird/ With unprobed rock specks in its beak/ Has blue eyes, blue horizons, blue thirst.

Swiftest things that run the world,/ Hums and beats, their wings unfurled./ Hummingbirds need

As I leaned / against the lamp post / watching her window, / I thought about all the ways we were closed off

he was like a tree / tall and distant from me / clothed in roughness // like a juniper / with a cactus growing

We go back to the pond/ And still he is there,// Standing on the jagged stonesSurrounding the edge of the

A front porch offers an artist’s view / of Canada geese. // The geese return every year, unannounced

Constellated droplets / cling to a slender gum leaf. / Time stands for their togetherness / a moment only

waking / early // above / the mountain / cold // morning / star

Snails have infested my garden. / They are preparing for the winter storms / By suckling dandelion

Grey clouds swift on an unfelt wind / stained by the fuchsia-gold light / of the sun resting beyond the sierra