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Salve, salve, Regina. As the song ends, he folds into the fabric seat.

As our friendship declined into torture, the prairie grew hotter.

through the trees, breathless, the grouse leads us steady as a rope.

I must never go to the garden without a heavy stick or a corn-knife.

It’s been a rainy, relatively windless fall, the aspen leaves clinging.

Let me tell you stories about lands far from here where you are absent.

The dope worked, though he felt ashamed using it, smoked in secret.

I make peas and argue with a wall. Something gets stuck like that.

As you watch the picture and begin to notice more, the nothing grows less.

Today brings a blue hour, but the jasmine has been dead for weeks.

If he was going to pick me up, the least he could do was look at me.

Some days are stretched so taut it feels like changing might break us. We feed the baby bitter melon, flower pepper, bloodroot beet. The first snow comes in January, fresh gauze over an old wound.

The grass is defiant, wild, and reluctant to take any shape.

I walk across the fields with only a few young cows for company.

Ten years ago, when I was in college, my father divorced my mother and said he wanted me to become responsible for her. That is why I fled to Italy.

Anchored off Biscayne Bay my father’s wooden skiff swings easy.

I want these things to have another life, like the old garden behind our house.

We wondered at their habits and gave them little poems for names.

I’d wager a cicada is fond of a high note on a synthesizer.

Just sugar cubes and a crop for you. Salt licks to smart the tongue.

Your jumps are numbered. It is better to be a bird without altitude.

It’s been months, and the fields are good for nothing but night talks.

Teams spend days surveying the damage and label me a mess.

“Why do we always fight,” he finally said, his voice quiet, resigned.

Here is the fat guy whose Chihuahua gnawed through his stomach.

Like steps of passing ghosts, the leaves break from the trees.

There’s no way to escape a storm at sea; it hits you, and you can’t hit back.

Navigating the trailer park at night felt like a raid on a strange village.

That what I call my Self is asleep, and has dreamed up these lilacs.

Einstein postulated that space and time sit neatly on the same fabric