I saw you sitting on the roof that night,the stars having descendedFrom their dusty perches to hangLike old dreams from your shirt pocket.
This is firecrackerfuse out, of the mouthof a mostly-dead fish,scooped from the bait binwhere our grandpawould keep a few—fireworks in the handsof too young boyswith too much time
She lifts two buckets from his truckbefore he can tell her what to do.The clank and weight of skimmers, rodsand spinning reels, plastic tackle boxesfull of lures that once fascinated, now
Listen. Even now, as ice cracks,a chickadee sings its spring song.
Speak only true names. Redwing blackbird.Orb-weaver eggs. Dragon cladonia.
When you want to clarify what you meantto say, say thank you.
Winter mornings I walk outside before the world starts up again. An occasional car, the early bus with one person on it. Sometimes the wind hasn’t even started and the heat from the chimneys of all the sleepers rises up above the houses.
This isn’t a protest, you understand.Bonfire in May with wood that’s gone dry,we’re burning the things that cannot withstand.
It’s still a ways away. It’s going to go away, you know. It’s still there. It is, or it isn’t. It’s in the mail. It’s in the console. It’s the perfect fit. It’s me versus you. It’s something we can all look back to. It’s forward looking.
The border is never real. Imagined, invented, imposed,hardening space at the current confluence of cultures,away from the poles and centers, hinterlands holdingtheir own, identities carved out of contrast, distinct
I tried to read his favoritepoem at my son his funhis fune read at his funeralhe’d you see died there wasa motorcycle a sunny black motorcycleand red the blood his head was
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Wisconsin Academy Offices
1922 University Avenue
Madison, Wisconsin 53726
James Watrous Gallery
3rd Floor, Overture Center for the Arts
201 State Street
Madison, WI 53703
Phone: 608.733.6633 x25