Language of posture,
of morals: upright, good
and crooked, bad. Think:
when is it that the body curves

Love like loaves and fishes. Wine for a wedding.

Here’s the morning again saying, look, the sun is in the trees,

earth’s hair tangled birded—

the garden a hive wound with color, dressed with names:

dill, cabbage, mustard, phlox, echeveria, aeonium—

Good Friday

Smoke alarm, you rouse me
to the dark, my thoughts
like crowds outside my door.

Along the street I watched
them burn plastics.
Farms, often as not,
stretching back throats
to the mountain.

Rain won’t fall, won’t fall and won’t.
When I learned the word virga

I learned how full a cloud could be,
Every word worth an extended visit,

Visit meaning to both comfort and afflict.

and every year I still yearn to write them—the leaves,
signature picture of beauty
inevitable
and stock as a sunset.

These delicate buds
of early Spring —

No dream nor waking spirit prevents / my tendency to wander / my tendency to run with pride / my vanity