Tag Archives: Nature poetry




the moon


the house


a constant alliance




when the wind

shakes the tether


a known route

becomes uncertain






extinct riverbed


a bone found

in the garden


seems human

in the dark






what is the exact

hour for waking?–



from a long sleep,

a step—


forward with the phalanx


winter method

winter method


sound wavers within the altitude


small grains move between here

and the horizon


locus of the principe


territorial boundaries


in the repeat story,

as canyoned as marrow bones




a conifer grows northward

toward an anonymous star—

only a percent


ultimate joys



these roots gently in leftover nebulae




too, a story of fog—



stand up, begin slow movements

toward the hearer




hoof beats absorbed in the sand—

the she-horse escapes

east, down the road


everyone waits outside




not yet the story

not yet the story


it was matter

mixed with




of light


it was she seeing,


against afternoon light





impossible reflection itself—

a glance of water surface


dark shadows and sky


—to enter


as crossing a foreign wall




always an outside




it is said messages

come from within the nest—


difficult to track—


footprints continue to evolve

at each windburst




lyric in the underbrush


sky sky





breath breath






and the song





drawn lines in the palm


illusion of gratitude or

an emptiness to wander


the old road for the sake—

is not yet the story





three o clock

three o’ clock



a clean root system

for ease of transport




only short range



a longing–

for nectar of one

thousand years’ sleep

and dream




I walk from here

to the edge of indifference,

all the talk—diverged

to an abstract


to the sound—is–

the sound of small creatures

within the thicket





flexing of the wind





thought pulls at underlying meaning



now stacked and labelled




pre-reflective traveler

in the onset of winter afternoon

stands at a gradient



as the gender assigned to an hour



now in between where identity,



decisions draw on for hours




the fabric


the fabric




within the stone



is where



to move

she moves north

she moves north


toward the high plain


absolved, perimeter lines

where climates

are fixed


a deferred hail storm


between self

and sky


the point of incident

still here,

beneath the pine


as interior elements


travels through northern


interior codes

never switch


and sits, ungroomed,

around the woodfire


you can felt the remnants

to house a bird


that’s an element

to forget

and learn again






evidence of predators

along the fence line—


their songs travel among

weeds, burrow

alternate paths


parallel shapes




confuse the lyric




I become entranced

with cast shadows—though

who will believe—



unfold themselves


as a word



glints in the light


small to large

to small again



echoes both hands

in a cooling trend


the verge

of a complicated






from atop a boulder,

scanning the paths

for even a glimpse



this poem cannot be proven

this poem cannot be proven


as a proof,

as if mapping the ocean floor

in verse sky maps


the moment facts come forward,

line outline

with blank center—

leaves turn yellow

as a consequence of breathing


in/vertical dilation—

time slows down

when measured

by a fast moving observer


a sentence can’t be both true

and false,


and somnolent,

latinate and hand



certainty undoes

itself, in bark patterns


by bore beetles


event horizon

where time freezes,

hands fall

to our sides




incubate words in a bird’s

heart, where O

a discourse marker,

O of recognition,

round and flexible,

to shape a nest,

to live


black-red blood of the plum,

ephemeral, contained

by thin skin


an eternal child



makes gesturing hands


motor skills

to carry and crack

an egg


plum, your limb

is my limb, contin

ues more limbs, two

of us drawn upward

as go and wend merge to



undulates vocables of Ur names,

now live on the slate, a trader’s



sealed into clay,

opened only


the voice


Loop topology

Loop topology


Born in a small town, walking paths

on imagined maps. Grown where margins

meet green fields, within seed coats

and insect rinds.


A screen, to protect

nocturnal animals from our thoughts.

Which must not be documented, only

half-breathed into sheets.


To sink into plum bark,

moth wing, a loop to lean into. An imprint

echoes through top soil, between layers

of sun and water, where our voices

leave deposits too faint

to dig up.


In that way,

the fields incubate an opening, a closing,

a flowering underground.


Very faint vibrations, very

faint, and at home, the blades

of grass have started to count again,

counting faintly but just enough to extend

space beneath story lines.


The way space

evolves between roots

growing toward hardpan,


the way limits

create novelty

in iterations.