so perfectly weighted
you can't decide:
geology or architecture?
the back of the lighthouse
windowless
the sea cave's skull
filled with cold
as if scraped out with a knife
and stones
with their linear
remember
more than we give them credit for
you light a cigarette
- the wind puts it out for you
the salt-white cliffs
the sea's black metal
Karen Fish
THE TUB
I sit on the green silk bank of the stream
watching a group of Canada geese fret over three small goslings.
Behind me, the road takes its turn,
empty, just a place for a fox to run along in the open .
The mountains in the distance are pewter-
like the pitcher, cool and sweating on my grandmother's lace
tablecloth .
The barn next to the house, I know what it contains:
rows and rows of pigeons, shifting on the thick beams
