"This is not a test..."

A darkness whirling

through woodland

up and over carved rock

into the central currents,

a heroic severity of will

breaking on the cliffs,

pulling down detritus

to a fluid, feral fate —

these bodies, streaming,

lining the haphazard trees

lean and bare and open:

lions in a field of lions,

and so obviously

meant to wander

and run and leap

through the night and

past the morning light,

shoulders burnt brown

now golden and great

in a whirling dawn.

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for nicolle

We listened and we heard in the space between us, a small garden with many new things: curving meridians and underworlds and iridescent dreams, shoulders to chest like a liturgy. One is when we are to


There are moments I remember that even the schools of crickets are multitudinous, and that waiting for the rain makes the sun too bright. I discover new shapes every day: green ones, gold ones, secret


Conversations with Jesus on the front porch. So many worries. That's true, he says. Everything moving by things I can't see. But perhaps, he says, you can. And under it all? You'll remember, he says.