The Flight of Birds, the Scat of Coyotes

I believe the flight of birds can tell us nothing about the future and everything about the present.
I believe in the coyote who scats in my front yard, though I haven’t seen it.
That any boot may hide a scorpion whose tail stings with broken dreams.
I believe in black cliffs overlooking a great river and searching for the falls that used to be there and are now drowned by dams.
I believe in striated red sandstone carved by water into the shapes of flesh.
I believe you cannot know a land without knowing its waters.
I believe the wind calls out the names of everyone you have lost, but only when you cannot hear them.
I believe in roots more than in leaves.
In mushrooms more than in flowers.
In paths more than in roads.
I believe the sea will devour my bones.
That sand can be cold enough to burn.
I believe crows know why they gather for funerals, but they will never tell us.
I believe bees get stoned on lavender.
I believe in fire.
I believe in the anarchy of my own soul.

Books Available
The Day of My First Driving Lesson
Country Well-Known as an Old Nightmare's Stable
High-Voltage Lines
Knocking from Inside

What shape is the wind?

It is the shape of flags snapping-- whip crack, ringing their lines against the flagpole

It is the shape of a full-bellied lateen sail, white wake underneath

It is the shape of the delicate hairs on your forearm barely stirring

Shape of the roof rattling, spiral of smoke rising, spray of loosened cherry petals

Shape of a newborn baby's first breath and God's last sigh

Of the moaning mouth of an empty bottle, the inside of a breaking wave--

What shape is poetry?

Available! High-Voltage Lines, Knocking from Inside

Bagamoyo

Here is the stone I dreamed full of voices
echoing the clink of chains in a ship's hold
stinking of sweat that dried without seeing daylight.
Here is the stone that listened
where no ear of flesh would hear the captive's cry, the driven slave,
stone that captured the crack of the foreman's whip.
Here is the stone I dreamed dancing to no drum.
Here is the great heavy stone that sat in the center of the slave mart
round rock crowned with rusty rings and broken links.
Here is the auctioneer's altar, the seat of barter, the seal of sale,
the coast where ships waited, holds hungry for human cargo.
Here is the stone where they laid down their hearts.
Their voices fill my dreams.

Bagamoyo is a city on the East African Coast that was one of the principal ports of the slave trade. The name of the city means "here I lay down my heart."

Available! High-Voltage Lines, Knocking from Inside