print previewback JENNY BROWNE
Jean Valentine Was Here
A man told his son
they would stand
shoulder to shoulder
and not be faced.
Sparrows ink both
the boy’s wrists.
Home says the back
of his neck.
Ice forms and falls
on the inside
of this small window.
Some assume the world
will not touch them.
Not one finger.
Whenever you leave
will be too soon. 
Boom
From Which the Method of Drawing in Space between the Trees Instead
of the Trees Themselves Might Well Be Employed
In the Unlikely Event of a Water Landing
Jean Valentine Was Here
Nine Miles outside Comfort, Texas
The Oldest Story