the pristine faces
of artist’s conks
mushroomier now
the chainsawed end of a hemlock
among acorns
taking root
the retriever’s snout
burial tree
my 100,000 miles of veins
high winds
a falling branch crashes
my party of one
The sun is different here—
distant, keeps odd hours. A foreigner, regarded with a mixture of bemused tolerance and mistrust.
this must be the place
the black-throated green warbler
is whispering
more dead children
I go for a walk in rain
that should be snow
The tree caught in a tree cannot be untreed except by rot.
This is a proverb from some far-away land where the Peter principle does not apply, and only the least competent are entrusted with the most important jobs.
another year gone
the traditional sauerkraut
salty as tears
