I’m tempted to call the woman, say I did not see her car accident,but will listen to her version, find out why she needs a witness.Three telephone poles, three hand-scrawled signsplead for someone who saw the silver Lexus hit her Honda.Her signs remain a week. I imagine she vents to family, fr

The rain in the woods where the fire eruptedmonths ago is abundance too soon, or too late,the blaze causing harm long after.The promise is fulfilled,but not mercifully, the watercoursesdeepening underfoot, charcoal and slurry and soil.The water has no color. It is the empty placebefore the first wor

Social movements need great art.

In dark matter,the hot bolt of deer— brambled rack,coiled haunch,stone spoor. A great stagbridledbarely, its riderlongthrown. This traceof breakingfrom wild, hintof bit.

Spring is his burden, and the night, a robe: lividas poppies in a roadside wrap, facing the dying weather.Spring is the furrow on his shoulder swathe,between the neck and forearm. Thus was the intimation right: a savior comesout of Jerusalem, with pericardial threadto make a heart’s claim

…moved over the face of the waters. And in reading this,the awareness that, more than once,God has turned my head in his direction,yet I haven’t seen the gesture for what it is. The world charges and is charged with a white-hot flame.I might turn away, but each morning my head is t