Between
Atonement is our kitchen window
the world falls through sleepless
and wild, tiny slaughters
lining the yard. How memory lies
like the moon: silkrose from a distance,
shot by dream, a child lifted into
next year and the next. You write of Spain’s white-
moth hill, the caves, and between us
an ocean same as the moon, sheer belief.
My desire rolls like a blind man in the side yard.
Tell me you carry it dustily up streets,
the little church, the saint head blooming
in a box. Our street, named for a woman and the wind,
terrible gifts of history—
I remember. Leaving,
your face was the smallest ever, the weather
in a rose. And then
the earth’s soft grind through
the keyhole, quiet between
the foot and the still-flapping wing.
One story of love is the story of the cliff
and the ship that tries
over and
over like
snow at night, the bride unfolding forever in a black
limousine. 
Between
The Edge of the Sea
In the Afternoon Men Are Dreaming of the Dark
Introductions Reading Loop
Tracking the Muse