More on: Poetry

Could she
make an excuse and stay home this year?
Get out of playing happy, the happy family?

Two years after the Pot Peak fire
the color returns to the wheat.

Cliff walls ascending, seagulls
ascending, skyward and calling out, circling over
the schools of herring and diving again to the sea.

But art aspires—art is only human.

Mortals are not designed to bask in joy,
though life be only borne by dreams of it.

An atom
is a fantastic
abacus,

In my dream, W.H. Auden and his husband
are talking about how much they enjoy playing house
in the ersatz suburb where I grew up.

Children practice first person
by choosing

between red and green,
dog and cat.

Holy Tuesday, a bag of dried figs
left with our stroller

She wondered

if two sips of lite beer had ruined her
lip gloss.