I can make no sense of you,
your breath is soot, redolent of caramel,
of sugar burned to an edge.
While logs complain in a fire,
our knees are hooded in blankets.
we burn the planks of old arguments,
pry pictures off the walls.
Everything goes up
in a white plume in the flue.
Each morning, fresh wood
is cut and ignited,
the tree's spirit
crackles through bark,
twists over the roofs
where red blood cells burn into stars.
Soon spring winds blow
through the bellows of the house,
geese fly hammer-shaped.
Air passes our lips
as we step over matchsticks of wood,
nails bent like twigs,
the smoke still lingering between us.
The high desert of the Mexican border, near Bisbee, Arizona
Poems Neiderngasse, Wind, Rattle, Conspire, Samsara, etc.
Danzler Award From the University Of Kentucky for Undergraduate poetry
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