winter is a

sly fox


running over

masks of

ice fields




winds and



chlorophyll cooling

within moon

struck sticks


and far below the




a hairless human


ice fishing for



in argillaceous




looking up


these hushed

moments of


under-water wonder

are for the collecting





of light





the long truing line of star-currents


and all





i cannot think past the young girl gone missing

right in my own town

right in the very same

village where my own

daughter was playing

last night, saying,

‘mom, stop worrying

so much; this is a safe



right where she ran with the other girls,

her hair trailing behind her like a mare,

her heart wild-singing under a full fall moon


right at the almost-age of young woman


it is a heart-gut-soul-wrenching terror

to have a child in this world


in this place where every thing

you think you know is pulled out


from under you

from inside of you


under a heart beat


it makes you want to hide

and keep your children inside




for you know this is not the

first or last time; for you know

you cannot fight this kind of evil


but what kind of life is that?


love out-endures in the long end,

and perhaps faith carries it there;


but where do hope and joy

go in that monstrous moment?


joy is gone in a flash — with the girl


hope must be kept alive at the bedside;

otherwise, how do you ever get up again?


how do you ever close your eyes to sleep?

how do you ever trust to dream?


UPDATE: Fiona returned home safely the following morning. No further details provided (or needed). Thank God!

open your eyes


the talking wires

shadow me on

my tiny-totem



the half dozen geese

hail the october sky

as they sail into her

wide, waiting eye


the writer spider

evolves her steel

city delicacy under

the front-porch eaves


as the body of knowledge

creeps in through the

thinking crack in

the winter-wall


and all in the

span of a wink


light house

some people never open

their windows; they don’t

even know the light in their

own house: on a hill, up a wish,


down a well, over the bows

and arrows of this slant-death

that comes too quickly

and without discovery.


they don’t know the planes of

their own ocean floors, the jig-

saw spread and tongue-in-groove

lilt of sloping wood where you can


lie flat for hours and breathe

deeply for the first time in your

life: buried briefly far and away

from the shiny hammer of terror.


if you never attend to your

fear—to the full tilt and lift of the

continent sheets; the vast forms of ice:

the spite—you can never attend to your love.

declaration of independence

when, in the course of four

mountains, one encounters the

four winds, and the four directions

by which they came;


when the buck meets you on the

borderland and says: we are one

in the same; when the eye of the

cliff excoriates your four-score soul;


when you descend from the perfect-union

heights and wend your way down, down

into the well of stars to find the cell-singing

mountain bending beneath your feet;


when, in the course of four

sky-strings, you let go and

fling yourself off this earth

engine; and open every door.