Pushing off on her back out
Into the fishpond's cold
Archaic glitter, my naked wife
Could not have guessed how
...
The window in mid-summer raised, and where
the screen intersects with the frame, a web of circular
tensile silks radiating outward from the central lair
...
In the American schoolyard
where we lunged headfirst
onto the rocky ground scrab-
bling for a ball
...
24.
In the last photograph of my sister, she is
sprawling in the shade, or what shade's left,
on the converted toolshed's whitewashed steps.
...
An emerald dungeon's blacklight glow
glimmered in the deeper reaches
where my son and I could hear the slub
of water riddling through the muck.
...
Having slept in a turnout in the backseat
of her car, she awoke before dawn, shivering,
hungover, unsure of where she was.
...
—for Logan and Renée Jenkins
Unlike almost everything
Else just surviving here
In summer, poison flowers
...
The day of my mother's funeral I spend clearing out
her overgrown flower beds, down on my knees
in the leaf rot, nut shells, tiny grains of sandlot sand
spilling from the runoff gullies. The hot work was to see
...
I.
Did he think that disguise would fool me? Gathering about
His balding head those filthy rags, poor-mouthing
His way beside my fire, then gazing into the looking glass
...