These are the boots
of my justification.
When they strike the dust
what rises will be
the sign of my righting
my long wronging
of myself.
I will do
what I always knew
I would do.
God is bad at justice.
This one’s on me.
These are the boots
of my justification.
When they strike the dust
what rises will be
the sign of my righting
my long wronging
of myself.
I will do
what I always knew
I would do.
God is bad at justice.
This one’s on me.
Unhook it.
Put it in your basket.
Clean it, cook it.
And dread the day
it works its wonder.
At wood’s edge.
There was a time
a tossed sandwich
would bring him
straight to the car,
the trunk to him
but a lordly can of beans.
What goes down
must come up.
But here in me
there’s no guarantee,
just hope in the stream
coursing through the canyon below.
Can you fix me in the flame?
From this slow, slow vertigo
The dawn beyond the fir
leads you out the door.
It’s cooler than you think,
and brighter at the shore.
Waves and crabs fall in line,
and from the deep the mussels cry,
What’s this mercy for?
my bucket with stars
is more brilliant than the last
until the road ends abruptly
and perplexity is as toffee
on your tongue
You hear the ache within you say,
Disquiet does not make a sound.