Earth and water without form,
change, or pause: as if the third
day had not come, this calm norm
of chaos denies the Word.
...
The long lines of diesels
groan toward evening
carrying off the breath
of the living.
...
My brother comes home from work
and climbs the stairs to our room.
I can hear the bed groan and his shoes drop
one by one. You can have it, he says.
...
Lately the wind burns
the last leaves and evening
comes too late to be
of use, lately I learned
...
Out of burlap sacks, out of bearing butter,
Out of black bean and wet slate bread,
Out of the acids of rage, the candor of tar,
Out of creosote, gasoline, drive shafts, wooden dollies,
...
The first time I drank gin
I thought it must be hair tonic.
My brother swiped the bottle
from a guy whose father owned
...
If you were twenty-seven
and had done time for beating
our ex-wife and had
no dreams you remembered
...
Along the strand stones,
busted shells, wood scraps,
bottle tops, dimpled
and stainless beer cans.
...
The last of day gathers
in the yellow parlor
and drifts like fine dust
across the face of
...
Green fingers
holding the hillside,
mustard whipping in
the sea winds, one blood-bright
...