The color of trees,
first one deer, then the other,
leave tracks in the snow.

The end of the day,
we walk the silent deer path
out of the forest.

For Franz Wright

Not sick but not saved,
he walks the river, amazed—
the dead poet’s son.

The first snow falling,
ribs and bones of trees revealed,
the nests abandoned.

Vigilant as stars,
mushrooms like spinning night skies
climb the forest tree.

It starts its descent
into the soft forest loam,
something in-between.

Sun on the tire tracks,
making two hearts out of them
at my mother’s house.

Now, now, now, now, now
everyone you love is here —
now, now, now, now now.

My dog under a
tree holding on to its leaves —
my birthday today.

From the undergrowth,
close to the surface and hum,
all forms of footsteps.

The sun rumbles out,
pink and orange and roaring,
waking up my mind.

At the museum—
beautiful things and ghosts here,
sunshine on Detroit.

Three swans on the pond,
the November sun setting —
they love each other.

The long quiet hour,
we make our way to the woods
through the goldenrod.

Happy accident,
lily and John Berryman,
Ben Shahn, rise on stems.

Found in the forest,
three leafs of a paper nest,
made by wasps or bees.

The in-between time—
trees that feel like spring or fall,
more light coming through.

All the small jewels
under the song of the thrush,
sleeping under stars.

Poets are holdouts
for the right, beautiful thing—
it ruins their sleep.

The brightness persists,
I am not forgotten,
my face is your face.