Take the globe by her imaginedcorners & stretch her flatlike evening against the skyBlow your trumpets angelsto stir our souls& stir bodies that have died

Once, before children, my wifeand I took a nest of fledglingsto a woman who rehabbed wildlife.I remember the “No” that creasedher face when asked if

Re-enter the world, a worldwhere, no matter how it first happened,the spark of your conception, too, was Spirit, as was the amniotic fluid—a dream brooding

The doctor’s office grants no placebeyond the floor’s gray linesto form and color. Here is spaceclean scrubbed and blank, defined by tile. Phone chorus, keyboard

No longer bent like weightedbranches or shrivelled like applesin the bottom of a bushel basketNo longer circling & recirclingin unsolvable mental labyrinths my parentshave left

In memoriam, Anya Silver We chose not to seehow close it hovered.She had been sick so longwe had grown accustomedto her bright scarvesand turbans as

Jumping from a great heightPlanting a damaged flower, hoping that it will grow,Getting down on one knee to ask for marriageThese things take courage From

I doubt my final creditsare quite ready to roll  though   so far   I’ve outlived John Donne’s span  & that of so many of the poetsI admire   I

–after Ross Gay First, it’s the backyardswing and the gentlesway and me with my sappyYA novel about teenagecancer patients andyou never knewwho would liveand who