123/2

.

assessing

the innocence
of vines

she hangs
another bag
of IV fluid

.

galoshes

no one
complains about

the crystalline
structure
of dirt

.

appreciation

for an abbreviated
life

I iron
wrinkles
into shot silk

.

one, two, three

.

heartworm

internally
speaking

I’ve almost
arrived
at your eyes

.

instructions

for dancing
in circles

the smoke
disappears
into clouds

.

famous

for shouting
loudly

the birds
vanish
when called

.

(second snow)

.

second snow
an angry wound
next to the scar

.

(tallying)

.

Christmas night
tallying the contents
of empty boxes

.

the sun stands still

.
unzipping files
the dark larger
inside than out
.

Presence 47

.

 

(gunshot)

.

summer night
a gunshot
interrupts the heat

.

Presence 47

.

I grew up in Connecticut, which is a very small state. No place in Connecticut is more than a couple of hours away from anyplace else. I lived about forty-five minutes from Newtown. It was down the road. Every place in Connecticut is down the road from everyplace else. Most of Connecticut is a patchwork of small towns more or less like Newtown, all butting comfortably up against each other, breathing each other’s air, gossiping comfortably about each other. The towns are all old and comfortable in their own skin. They’re real places, not in-between places; organic places, not manufactured places. I was a child in one of those towns. I’ve never felt so safe since.

halfway through Advent
the latest explanation
for evil

.

.

first snow

.

winter darkness
a load-bearing wall
collapses

.

deep winter
they compare the size
of their rifles

.

(winter darkness, Modern Haiku 43.3; deep winter, A Hundred Gourds 1.4)

.