Even the plow can’t
promise an opening. For
that, it’s faith alone.
MARCH 2019
Holding a mirror
up, we see: a pastoral,
bated and bloody.
FEBRUARY 2019
We build mass and look
for shadows to tell us when
it’s time to rain down.
JANUARY 2019
The gilding of the
beetelbungs, mercury in
our lungs—no hiding.
DECEMBER 2018
Waiting for light at
the bottom of a breath. Rose-
gold windows glow through the trees.
NOVEMBER 2018
The cold a faucet
washing out colors—sending
Ishmael to sea.
OCTOBER 2018
What is for keeping,
for kindling, for the crows? The
forest, she’s blushing.
SEPTEMBER 2018
You count the sunsets,
as I well at the smell of
the cooling blacktop.
AUGUST 2018
We swell, and spit out
seeds that will wait to fill us.
Water tempers fires.
JULY 2018
The smell of dried, bound
grass. Cornflower haloes bob—
Mary in the pool.