Gar wood’s hard to grow. Rather, give them—
as the weaver in a linseed field,
his goat for trees where no forest
betrays a path children made in wooden
shoes made but cannot recover—
your eyes. Tell them that to see clearly
is to ride a mud horse into the river
at a time when even grass is scarce.



The edge is not ragged. There is no edge.
One simply runs out of space—a dereliction
of force. Even the heart has its summer.
One can see winter’s blossoms point before
the locust slips out of its labored shell.
The apple flaunts its white skirt before its red.



There is a vein that runs through everything—
from leaf to worm and iron-riddled earth.
It has been probed so many times by bungling
nurses, it jumps like a dik-dik at the snap
of a twig. Death, too, is delicate. More so
than life—with its brackish wings in heron flight.