I can only wonderat this blurredwhir of evidence, cloudedin the blue fanof a thousandwings. I wantto feeltheir million beatsper second on my beardand lashes,reelfrom each

Mid-day, a slightest shivering mistbut still the sun staring overyour shoulder, those wispsstealing across peripheral fieldslike several clever students late for class.The professor with the

A downed oak, toppled by time, pithless logleveled, imploding, rotting edificeunder blown snow; above, warped-and-wovenscene of leafless torsos, sky’s grays threadedthrough like tattered banners attesting

Let us believe in a strong god,who makes the oceansroar and the wind crack about our ears…For we are envious of this, and tobelieve in

Three teen deer have begun of lateto make daily dusk-time stops out back,their flat flanks and thick, angled necksdepicting stumps and trunks that thenmove and