for Dawn Thompson
There is only one rule
of any real value
Mrs. Butterworth stands on the windowsill
of the Christianson Ranch shack, whose door
stands agape with the hasp-screws rotted out.
Forty years down our wilderness path,
neither I nor you recall the genesis.
All we know is our tweenaged selves
standing in shame before your holy father
A poem maketh not the sun to rise,
Obscureth not the wayward path at dusk—
today i shaved the right side of my face first
as usual i puffed a bit of shaving cream
astride my left forefinger
looked in the mirror
for Joshua Dodds
He speaks in a voice with eyes:
eyes that hear,
an ear that touches,
a hand that reaches around your heart
Truth is necessarily loved in such a way that those who love something else—besides her—wish that other thing to be truth. Continue reading
A man stands on oiled chipseal, camera in hand.
The highway undulates distantly, nearly straight,
as heat-shimmered dips lend the appearance
of road-fracture, shifted along a series of faults.
In response to a Middle English facsimile of the Gospel of Luke
The minims of textualis crowd themselves,
ascenders aplenty but descenders few,
into Wycliffe’s words of Gabriel to Mary: