It had run on, the river and the horse in it.
that’s the kind of angel I’d be
a ballplayer, like everyone else in heaven
the meadow submits
to cold hands
This is not the realm of will or desire.
so many ways of talking about the body’s grace
as though death is a bedroom you’re swept into / by a passion so strong you don’t care what thread / and buttons you scatter behind
I wonder if they’d carry / the sadness of a man like me.
I felt most myself by the river.
rain is a blessing from god she said
covered in hose water and mud
I found myself in the maternity ward, facing
someone else’s child