summer of the painting

i want to live in a

light house.





these wrinkles

and lines need


something to open

and close


with a light



you have the



you are starting

to believe it.


you are starting to

love your self





a solitary wing

with its lantern


pair flapping in the



a flickering




the seasons;


a window;

a wind—


to speak through

and in and on


and on

and anon.


Song of the Wayland, Anselm Kiefer





she walks with flower

blossoms in her hair.


the wind put them there.


she follows a long line of

seeds trying to be trees.


she talks to the dogwood

opening its thousand little


mouths in front of her

house. she finally under-


stands what some one is


saying: look at me, talk to me, stop

what you are doing and see me;


go out of your way to go out of your

yard; there are more of us out there—


diverse kin across africa, iceland,

the rainforest, grand canyon.


dive in: nurture us, make room for us,

build your homes around us, and


we will do the same for you.



the first few months are magic, are safe,

are exhilaratingly edged, are me showing you

my best held-together self. it’s not fake; i’m really

feeling it, really flying. but it’s not the whole


package. it’s as if a part of me—that

spiny slant of light—has split off and

soared—and you are the reason, and the

co-pilot, and the sunset, and the high.


the trick is in the sustain. all things must come 

to a bend; all things must eventually land.

but what a fucking ride.

what a fucking sunrise.


i would not go back and change a thing.

ok, maybe a few tiny things—

but only on my end. you were every

thing i needed at that time.


you were

every thing.

and for a moment,

so was i.



once your worst fear comes true, it all goes
out the window from there. once you see that
you can survive what you thought would kill you,
you discover a resolve, and a freedom.

you will not be lonely; before long a new
worst fear will come to take its place.
but instead of letting it inhabit you,
you will inhabit it like a summer house:

you will visit it regularly, use it for a 
fair-weather muse, momentum. you will re-
member that you are the curator: you select
the temperature, the view, the furniture,

the food. you choose which flowers to
bring in from the garden; you choose
the garden. you entertain guests at
your leisure, and spend countless hours

completely alone, staring up at ceilings,
out at horizons, in at dream selves. and
at the end of the season, when you have had
your fill of dinner parties and mindless novels

and beach sands and pool sides, you
pack your bags, sweep the floors, board
up the windows, and head back to the
mainland—where you make your living.

Art: Summer-House, Paul Klee


In the Bois de Boulogne, Vincent van Gogh

this is the time of transition, of reflection, of decay and death,

of summer trying to hold onto the days while the mornings and

evenings already belong to fall. the crickets are in their mourning

phase, calling out to their ancestors to make way. through the sharp

air, sharper skies: the cries of migrating geese, the ramping up of

falling leaves, the putting on of sweatshirts, the long sleeves re-

assuring, rubbing up against my skin like realization, my cold hands

and cold feet waking me, keeping me ticking above the lull of heat—

i relish the shivering. everything is becoming thicker, heavier; every-

thing is taking on more meaning, forcing me to burrow down into it,

into my self, into these sacred days numbered before winter sets in.

october is my favorite month. i will not let my father’s death detract

from her; she becomes an aching bittersweet that i roll between my

fingers, hold between my teeth, suck down to her last acrid nub.

Art: In the Bois de Boulogne, Vincent van Gogh


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