The one who kept walking

Migrating if they sensed the seasons were turning
Against them.
When I walked into the forest
of camouflage…
…the words
Pearl Harbor over the jets
Of milk ringing in the pail.

A benediction

McFee’s nonesuch

Can we talk?

Crowned newly with a fearsome cutting,
I fold the aqua blanket twice to stay alive.

Headstones in the heart’s holler, sludge
of what’s left after the mountain’s blasted.

Not a kid anymore, there are no pretty victims
or greasy cavernous villains spitting blazes.

Wonder and sorrow

Nature, writ large, is a brooding and impassive force in these poems. There’s plenty of mud, muck, and loam, and often it proffers the delicate skull of a small animal, bleached and moony. And the moon itself is a constant feature—it’s a rare poem in this collection that does not mention the moon in some manner. There are birds, too, of course. Herons, which typically assume a godly stature, and crows and grackles, which are vaguely associated with the poet’s mother. 

…at dusk, the grackles in the trees gave way
to bats, as though everything transforms in darkness
to something ancient.

The divine tragicomedy

…to wake up
and do it all again.
And again.
And again.
Not suddenly. Not prettily, not like anyone should die.
She died in a hospital in the city of New York
and no one knew her name.
The world is filled with tears and the song of birds.
Para siempre.

A form-idable guide


Good Glück with that!

Homie is where the heart is

Months ago, I was planning to write this post. But everything changed when the Covid nation attacked!