Indeed I cling to the morning newspaper,
its relatively ancient news administered in ink
upon the crinolines of many dead trees,
like the postmortem of a marriage
those in the know already know has ended in divorce.
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The rivers had cleared up and were running blue, scouring the year’s silt from the bottoms, cleaning and scrubbing every stone. From time to time she and her father would see a bald eagle sitting in a cottonwood snag overlooking the river.
Read MoreFrom a quarter mile away,
the notes of the nearest neighbor’s bamboo
wind chime arrive from time to time.
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Into the birdbath’s frozen mirror,
you stare down a nose of red clay
as if—past mossy five o’clock-shadow,
your curls under snow—
you can’t see
someone just carved from marble,
and stupid with it
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This weight on my chest,
this sullen sadness—tell me, Doctor,
how I can lift it up and set it down.
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