What sudden rhetoric trembles at the door? I see clouds reflected in the gutter, but they’re still clouds. Having never shot a deer, I ride the hill like homeward ire. Out-paced, unpetaled, a boomerang of star fury: all my busted rigor. Whatever it is arranges itself for capture, the wormwood box, ghost of a chance. No one’s alone anymore. A name slides home, two words dashed to silly alchemy, a sun uncorked of glory. What little monster have I made, to favor love of all that’s said?
“Accidental Breezes”, from the book Meteoric Flowers, 2006
found on pg. 105 in the book Alive, new and selected poems, published by NYRB, 2015