saying hello

to a moss-covered log
heron wingbeats

slow fall

the standing dead
turn blue

that inevitable cliché // the deplorable rightness of nature

among blood-colored leaves—hunting season

the empty days
in his pocket calendar

the skeleton it wasn’t

the giant
my father was

with one eye open
it’s his vigil too

double-sealed doors
it’s autumn

I’m listening

the clouds in his eyes

my ration
of moonlight