Yes even when I don't believe there is a place in me inaccessible to unbelief a patch of wild grace a stubborn preserve impenetrable pain untouched sleeping in the body music that builds its nest

Mother of Sorrow, Mother of stars and night fires, arroyos, tossed tequila bottles, the dead drunk. Mother of the streets, of the violent, weekend golfers, cut off, and a windshield smashed with bare fists; the

Dedicated to the memory of Karen Silkwood and Eliot Gralla From too much love of living, Hope and desire set free, Even the weariest river Winds somewhere to the sea— (Algeron Charles Swinburne) But we have only begun

It hovers in dark corners before the lights are turned on, it shakes sleep from its eyes and drops from mushroom gills, it explodes in the starry heads of dandelions turned sages, it sticks to

Wind whistling, as it does in winter, and I think nothing of it until it snaps a shutter off her bedroom window, spins it over the roof and down to crash on the deck in

Don’t say, don’t say there is no water to solace the dryness at our hearts. I have seen the fountain springing out of the rock wall and you drinking there. And I too before your