More on: Poetry

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?

One recalls the depths of shadow, / The uncertain elsewhere of each room, / Dust like stellar remnants drawn together.

Here flints / / sleep next to tinder, matches near the stove.

How many forms can the wind take? / A paper bag, a dying voice, a limping stray.

Star-eater, you said / nothing when I asked; / you couldn’t hear me / with my mouth pressed

I’m carrying into the cold / a bulging trash bag, big enough to hold / and hold and stretch and hold, like love itself, /
and outfitted with handy drawstrings.

Because nearing what one wants, / Our intellect is so overcome / That our memory is left behind.