by a dead leaf—
cleavers
Author: Dave Bonta
I live in an Appalachian hollow in the Juniata watershed of central Pennsylvania, and spend a great deal of time walking in the woods. My books of poetry include FAILED STATE: HAIBUN, ICE MOUNTAIN: AN ELEGY, BREAKDOWN: BANJO POEMS, and ODES TO TOOLS.
In advance of a flight,
I feel increasingly restless and unmoored.
still nodding
where the fisher broke cover
foamflowers
It staggers me
to think that I owe my existence to the most athletic among a crowd of sperm cells.
shadbush
pale as the memory
of shadbush
Grown old and grizzled,
you no longer have to wonder whether her scent is meant for you.
Flowers evolved as clickbait for pollinators.
You won’t believe what happened next.
jumping spider
pressed flat except for
its arc of eyes
ancient street tree
all its alternative routes
marked X
dog sniffing
past the trailing arbutus—
coyote scat
Internal division is in your best interests
if it means being always prepared for a change in the wind.
throbbing
a hundred ways at once—
wood frog party
