<Previous      Next>
Of Season

Wayfarer: what I call the bug

that dogs my students—weak fever,
smudge on the throat’s rosy altar.

We are a drawn bow and we are
the arrow and the target too.

I admit all the misery in this place
won’t be turned by it. Wanderer.


The floor trembles. Or, the earth?

Through matted, dew-fed grass—
painstakingly sweet and stinging—

flowers press furled heads as
roots draw strength from a corpse.

A rough-legged hawk wheels south-
east; a fathom above her, pintails

speed north, thinking as a flock.


Most of us get better but, some, never.