Put it all in the air
and let it hang there,
our ball of broken dreams
and broken bones
Put it all in the air
and let it hang there,
our ball of broken dreams
and broken bones
I am now in a room where
my father is in a tent
at Sequim Bay.
He’s lit a fire and
his fingers move.
Their shadows are like strings
tied to the tent,
pulling it down.
When you live at the
depth of the goodness of life,
no skull will unsettle you,
but you’ll wonder at
the shape the good can take
Some of the best poets are in advertising
When is it water and
when is it drop, cry, ache
or bitter rebuke?
I look out and every-
where it’s snowing
She was no doubt right, but what
were they again?
Of God and Ikea
You there, opening your door
in our sky, where
is that fair
lane over our hill?