Sunday, September 13, 2020


The stories spin, warp and weft through
holes in a tablet, in my memory, others’
fingers spelling ram’s-horn patterns, the
horn a reminder of the communal breath
we no longer share. Tell me a story about
a weaver, I asked the wind. “Only that a
spider dropped its thread, too heavy with
ash to sieve for flies.” This fire season, I
see hummingbirds rising like sparks, their
nests dusted with soot from those webs.

Friday, September 04, 2020


Lead Mines, Clough, Rivington UK,
Gary Gray, Date Unknown

The excavation’s long since stalled
out. Digging the sough, I mean. “To
mine the lead, we need to draw the
water table down, to draw the water
down we need to dig, but the picks
were left behind, were lost, and so
am I.”
There’s a shallow ditch, or the
shape left behind where you fell. Oh.
Oh. This geology, these mines, clay
under my fingernails that smells like
the last kiss I gave you—atop your
head as you dozed at the computer,
blue-gray light from the screen like
a caul, wrapping us both. But I left
the room to go to bed, and you, my
dear, fell, then crawled, then left,
and still I can’t drain this sough.