tension stretching strings of muscle in the dirt warmth next to wildflowers, my feet stepping in prayers.

the truck is gone. the truck is scrap. (just that one half of the bumper, just that license plate from Big… everything else is gone.

it is March now. winter hangs on while spring looks on waiting.

Fish fry in Benoit. Joyce brings a hundred dollars in… almost right to your mouth and you wonder if it’s just too easy

Truck sounds like metal on metal– grinding coughing hard–

leeks bursting seedpods, equinox of our summer, moon becoming full.

Fish fry in Benoit. Joyce brings a hundred dollars in cod and beer almost right to your mouth and you wonder if it’s

sit in a tunnel fall at the northernmost point trip around the sun.

the still rising sun calls to you to rise; early morning dawn light brings you to a particular log and leaves you there,

the best strawberry is the smallest, not-in-the-garden strawberry that grows between and beneath the grass and tallgrass

A stone in the lake old as water. Older than any question. Older than dirt and more stubborn. Round.

we held the dream between our holding hands. we held our hands in the warmth of my coat pocket

something feels as though it is at unease because it has not settled.

some metal piece out of place disturbs everything and suddenly i’m windbound on a calm night. left to my own devices,

when you get started and you don’t… start digging slowly and softly, move things around. i turned over a rock