← v3n1, Spring 2004
Poetry · Volume 3, Number 1

Images from the Kingdom of Things

Sunlight is blowing westward across the unshadowed meadow,

Night, in its shallow puddles,

                                           still liquid and loose in the trees.

The world is a desolate garden,

No distillation of downed grasses,

no stopping the clouds, coming at us one by one.

~

The snow crown on Mt. Henry is still white,

                                              the old smoke watcher's tower

Left-leaning a bit in its odd angle to the world,

Abandoned, unusable.

Down here, in their green time, it's past noon

and the lodgepole pines adjust their detonators.

~

The blanched bones of moonlight scatter across the meadow.

The song of the second creek, with its one note,

                                                                        plays over and over.

How many word-warriors ever return

                                                         from midnight's waste and ruin?

Count out the bones, count out the grains in the yellow dust.