Gun Powder on Paper

And where are we now? Remembering how fine it all is, how remote from something that
can kill, as, in a moment, one distraction and the glass plate doesn’t make it, as we had
intended, to the credenza, and we’re surprised by the shattering sound when we let go, the
mess of shards on the floor. It’s over. Ready for dustpan and broom and so little regret—
something to clean. A reason to get on our knees, to attend to the wood below our feet.
Something coheres. And now there’s a pattern. Now there’s a past.

Stone

Someone has etched the word: stone. Someone has felt it. Someone has seen it lying in a

field. All other words, after this, must be measured against it—the scarves and ribbons of

flying sunset, the baubles worn to the fair—all the assumptions of love, all the anxieties

over its absence. My dear, it’s time for the ribbons to drop, as the opera entirely disappears.

And this is all right. The stone is smooth and weighty. And imperfect.

The Night Roses


And then I could feel their strange weight, wet as night as they fell from her hands, even 
the stems flush with scent and dew—and in the center of this large bouquet, too large to
hold—even the cabbage a too-large rose, even its leaves now petals—as every daily thing
is remembered and fondled as a rose—even the folded night, even the silence of its
singing.

Even its dark song.