For David Beckwith, 1950-2022 The week you died, the Russian tanks rolled into Ukrainethrough gauzy snow like this. Your brothers joked that Putinwaited to invade

Have you ever desireda carwash for the soulrushedright up to thoseretractable doors to driveright in let the gush & spraywash away mud-splatters& grease? You knew

(Ribes sanguineum) Back in 1825, David Douglaspacked your kin on a ship to London,where sales of their seeds alonerepaid the cost of his expedition. That

From the very top of Grey Butte,the peaks and canyons of Yosemiteflash around us as they do. But above, in an ocean of deep-blue sky,four-five-six

Take heart—they say the darkest hour gives birth to dawn,the pain and pitch and fog, saliva-thick, but then, the brand-new start.Take heart—joy comes with the

The mystics say to dig, hammer the cloud, dayand night. That the act of gazing at the long obsidian robe of God undresses unknowing. I

In the heat of summer as afternoonwears on as octogenarians care fortheir flower gardens & sprinklers jet across expanses of lawn the waterlevel in the

You ask me what I thought then. I thought what I think still—tokeep custody of my eyes and lips. If my mistress wraps fig cakes

Plenty of dented signs on the highway. Igloo photographs in the drawers on the left. I don’t know where the antidote is kept. Nobody came