WOVEN WATER
More than once we hear him address the sea;
the rage for order, as Stevens says, is blessed,
and even our dreams, as they wind across the width
SURVIVAL
Autumn bees
heavy on goldenrod
must know what we know
as they work that
THIS NOT THE POEM I MOST WANT TO WRITE
Here at dawn in mid-January
there are no lightning bugs,
nor is there an orchestra
of locusts and frogs,
TATTOOS
Unlike the other men in the family, my father
has no chains or skunks with attitude,
or his last name over crossed Italian flags,
SLEEPWALKING
a concert of waxwings
where the offering of daybreak
whitens the road
CARDINALS
I had seen them in the tree,
and heard they mate for life,
so I hung a bird feeder
and waited.