The Blog

        she saw real birds

as wind-up birds with intricate

machinery; their whistles, the metal

architecture of their wings—she saw 

them perched atop the hospital,

where exhausted women brought

Note

To say it and it won’t become information

Fruit sour before ripening, then sour and ripe

*

Anything starts in medias res if you say it

Leaving your house, even the cut grass smelled of basil
           

Envoy

I didn’t get around to mailing
The book so read it myself again 

In sufficient snow
The widest street becomes a one-lane road
What will I miss last