Aught, no. 15 (2006)
Consonant song
Weather’s thatched us
mysterious.
Most days break coastal after good shaking—
life’s glitter siphons through hands as feathers
find light and blacken.
An almanac’s looked-after fracture: forever
a light or a corpse.
Were things more ordinary
we’d give them all names, but they’re
not worth a candle, not worth a flame.
What’s to burn
when a field feeds the sea and is.
Rain—you hear
it, an ear sliding
down a window.
Skin polished
to gristle seems
a feasible treasure.
What one wants
sounds perfect
as it passes.