and thick, bearded trees
dream of rain.
Here appetite recovers
simplicity: moss
releases a shimmering;
row upon row
of corn, peppers, onions;
the day lilies' habit
of dying, one mouth
closing to open
another . The skin
above the skin
shivers, remembering
earlier gardens :
the rural aurora
sunk in the blood.
I want to learn
how the mustard seeds,
small as the sins
of a boy, know
to split open.
Ann Snodgrass
A
DISTANCE
It
was a desirable place after all . I guess
lights don't have to burn all evening. Stars
can be enough to make fog seem less final:
imitate, in their own way, interior vision .
It was not love. I always knew that.
Love is wherever there is a lake; sometimes
