Some people, no matter what you give them, still want the moon. The bread, the salt,

iiGloria Praise the wet snow falling early. Praise the shadow my neighor’s chimney casts on the…

What is green in me darkens, muscadine. If woman is inconstant, good, I am faithful to ebb and flow, I fall

An old man whose black face shines golden-brown as wet pebbles under the streetlamp, is walking t… proportionate size, in the rain, in the relaxed early-evening avenu…

This is the year the old ones, the old great ones leave us alone on the road. The road leads to the sea. We have the words in our pockets,

A night that cuts between you and… and you and you and you and me: jostles us apart, a man el… through a crowd. We won’t look for each other, either–

Pale, then enkindled, light advancing, emblazoning summits of palm and pine,

Delivered out of raw continual pai… smell of darkness, groans of those… to whom he was chained— unchained, and led past the sleepers,

I like to find what’s not found at once, but lies within something of another nature… in repose, distinct.

The fire in leaf and grass so green it seems each summer the last summer. The wind blowing, the leaves shivering in the sun,

Not the moon. A flower on the other side of the water. The water sweeps past in flood, dragging a whole tree by the hair, a barn, a bridge. The flower

Brilliant, this day—a young virtuo… Morning shadow cut by sharpest sci… deft hands. And every prodigy of g… whether it’s ferns or lichens or n… or impatient points of buds on spi…

Bricks of the wall, so much older than the house - taken I think from a farm pulled d… when the street was built - narrow bricks of another century.