Object Permanence

in spring we come across a peeling house and fill it with pots and pans. sometimes I make noise with a wooden spoon. you fix

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Poetry

Ripening

(after 8-bitfiction) you sink your sensible feet in the dirtwhile we talk about the heatpresuming the boundaries of the courtare drawn there like sowed beds,

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Poetry

Plum Island

after Andrew Wyeth‘s Squall the piping plovers hoppedalong the time I wentbirding, cold and wet dispositions fret,slickered yellow hiding behinddunes pock-marked by rain, canvas tote bagsdampened,

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Leap Day

balmy air sneaks its way throughthe gaps in the cable-knit,in this finicky colony housingconfused birds and the carnageof melting snow. people sharing happinesses,incredulous – it’s

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Minding

all at once I hide myself,with found cravings in a coat pockethidden in autumn’s closet.a yellow leaf touched my faceand I wanted this silence:to bury

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