More on: Poetry

When it comes to commemoration, / the great advantage of sculpture/ is how it tends to outlast / not only what happened / but everything surrounding it, / suggesting a context / is that which rots away.

The syllables of my beloved are sweeter / than the cherry yogurt that once brimmed / these cups, her clavicle sturdier than corncobs, / her skin fairer than papery onion skins.

Three hours, midday: state minimum. / Three hours, midday: the god and her child deep in the forest.

I like to be a little cold what / / I mean is I need to feel just / uncomfortable enough to know I’m still / alive

I’ll tell you what / a proverb does. A proverb waits / for the knowing / / animal. A proverb talks / when no / one listens.

Lie beside me in this fallowland / / crossed through with tramps’ tracks wandering / lost at even these short spans

I have carried down the city of you / the continent the fields of corn the fields of you

I have carried down the city of you / the continent the fields of corn the fields of you

Five thousand miles of wind and unbounded / / main arrested and framed as a square— / something the size of something / / knowable, even known.

Who would just leave a baby Jesus out / In their front lawn for anyone to take?