Wendy Vardaman Biography

Fifty daffodils, one hundred
hyacinth—buried
last fall produce
only a handful of half-way resurrections:
...

I try to ignore the window
washer leaning against me; he strokes the sheet
that separates us, blocks my light,
my view of construction across the way,
...

Away a few days, we return to a deluge—
ankle deep in the basement—
window-leaked above, over-saturated beneath: the papers and maps
scattered all over the floor past salvage: we tear
...

He likes action,
violence, surprise, plot: not shards
of household glass assembled
with tweezers, blurred vision,
...

Some days are like that—everything
means something:
two parallel pits in fresh snow, filled with black
ice and surrounded by sediment, by rock
...