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The Recording Angel

Years they sought her, whose crew left on the water a sad Welsh hymn.

The River Merchant’s Answer to His Wife

Each night I curl my body around a small piece of silence.

The Saltcutter’s Wife

The pain lithified to numbness, and she recalled the time of his courtship.

The Sea Pebble

The people with pebbles go home to frolic under the detritus of the day.

The Sentimentality of William Tavener

It takes a strong woman to make any sort of success in the West.

The Servants’ Quarters

Ma didn’t believe in slapping. It was what common people did.

The Singer with a Bad Voice

Sing so dogs bark, oxen bolt. Sing so a girl walks out on her lover.

The Sinkhole

The tomatoes weren’t there. She looked again at the ground.

The Spectacular

What’s a man supposed to do when his best friend is a falcon?

The Surfers at San Clemente Pier, September 2021

The local madman’s been here even longer, lying across the sidewalk. It’s no sin, all who hurry past his babble: no word-salad unlocks God.

The Territory of Being Beautiful

Between me and the sky is a screen door and a whole mess of wind.

The Touch and Other Poems

Flies at our dinner—Won’t eat much sings the tiny ghost of my mother.

The Tracks

No parent has yet been born who can save a child from childhood.

The Tradition

Men like me and my brothers filmed what we planted for proof we existed.

The Trees Named “Glowing Embers”

Little footage, this plot, where it thrived at first, then ghosted away.

The Trees Their Axes

To deny love can’t undo the feeling of it.

The Truth the Dead Know

No one’s alone. Men kill for this, or for as much. And what of the dead?

The Visiting Room

We spread. Kneel. We’ll come out missing parts. This we know.

The Weary Blues

One said she heard the jazz-band sob when the little dawn was grey.

The Wild Boar

We’d hit something in the dark which—bang!—was there and gone.

The Wilderness around Us and Other Poems

In the backyard I submerge myself in a bathtub of soil, soak with the hose.

The Woman Who Turned Down a Date with a Cherry Farmer

I was dusty, my ponytail all askew and the tips of my fingers ran red.

They Who Loved the Smell of Burning

By the time the sun was barely over the trees, they’d started burning.

Thigh and Digression

Euclid stands in front of his lover’s door, open to the last hours of light.

Things That Don’t Keep a Lightning Bug Alive

Where my mom was wasn’t never far from the Myrtle Beach Days Inn.

This Close to Dark

I could go in for some pie why the hell not, there’s so little time.

This Kind of Life Keeps Breaking

“We’re not like other species,” you say, a novelist at night.

This Sort of Thing Happens All the Time

You’re standing too close to a lit house which could be yours—is it yours?

This Summer

Hear the voice of life telling you something from the inside out.

Thistles

Before he started spraying he would hand her the mask to put on.