You have arrived at my place. Let me show you round.

What you’ll find here


It opens, and then opens again,
grows over, and changes,

lose-some, gain-some.

There were trees,
once, deer cover, and browse,

hunting grounds of hawk and owl, squirrel runs,

old stumps and bark, nothing
if not hospitable.

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All my mothers are here
in their best dresses: mother
grandmothers, great-grandmothers;

of the men only my father
posed with cigarette in hand
and my grandmother on the sofa

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Embroidered Field

Who pulled the floss from the skein
and knotted it, choosing
among the colors of flowers the colors of these

perfect, impossible asters, flower within flower,
corymbs and umbels, stitched in a time, I will,
I will not, I will, I will not. Knot.

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Field as Auditorium

You say my messages did not get through

What sound do messages make as they
lose themselves in the ether

glissando diminuendo

What is the sound of my lost language

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The Puddle

In a rut in the dirt road:
a vernal pool. A few small,
almost transparent water striders
twitch the surface, and below them,
tadpoles wriggle and float
in the limpid water,
hundreds of them—all
straining cell by cell to be
among the living,
the fat, full-throated racket
and splurge of spring
up and down the creek.

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