Cut it off.  Watch it twitch.

Carry with you that plumb heart.

Trace the constellation with a narrow thumb. 

Can life skim the black of summer?


Not a thing ever said

or done or created has captured

such a sacrifice— the windows

rattle, the river bursts, the winds gush


the guts of home. A drive from

here into the remains of a season.

Allow the orchid of the plumb her last   

vapid beat.   The hint: a state of grace.


Emerge towards the skin of autumn;

slip your sandals in the grass.

Back to blog