I wanted to make a shift from fire to fine
its averageness, its elegance
its penalty
Once there was nothing. Then this flower. What is the cost of bringing something so yellow into being?
As I walk with my eyes closed, the day appears to brighten and brighten
The children pedalled Their bicycles down the street, Dragging their long, late-summer shadows To death behind them.
My father loved to drive and he loved wild- Flowers and when we came upon a hillside Of complete destruction, obliterated petals, He’d stop the conversation but not the car
Wrapped in an afghan of silver frost, The winter trees lower the sky onto their shoulders.
The stutter-speech of sprinklers in the neighbour’s yard. The whisper language of lawns and moths.
