clouds in our airspace

and all this immigrant snow
clinging to our land

spelling out fences

the immaculate ignorance
of snow

we brought our words folded up like dangerous umbrellas.

all that’s left is location
location location

and the other foot, too, in this world, I am learning to love the dailyness of my walks.

when nearly everyone shared a knowledge of what the Bible said and an ignorance of what it meant.

is like a folded wing. A sleeping face is a dry riverbed with the faint sound of water somewhere below.

and its occupant insists on throwing stones.

I’d come in, sit down, and make myself uncomfortable.

and a face forgets how to go blank, trapped in a permanent facsimile.

the moss grows fat
on the milk of clouds

bare branches turn
green again