Transparency, As in Projection

You’ve barely scratched the surface 
Under the volcano 

And already you think 
Your mind’s made of obsidian. 

On the Threshold

Unblinking wide-eyed pupils 

Soon to be taught how 
To be blind to whatever 
They saw 

That set them apart. 

Little House in Olive Grove at Twilight

passage

of almond flowered clustered

stars through the firmament soon in sight

find matches smell the oil lamp light the fire

place yourself right here no

where else in universe so

right.

Stopgap Measure

Save your breath, poet— 
It’ll come in handy later

Bridging the void. 

Slaking Your Thirst after a Long Dry Spell

the miracle 
rain keeps 
its distance but will 
soon descend slant- 
wise on the wings 
of a blustery south wind— 

beaks open, 
unlike us the supplicant 
chickens know this time 
they won’t need 
to lift their heads 
to the high heavens 

to drink it all in.