All night she cries out for me. Icebergs rasp her ship’s wooden flanks. Her arms, benumbed, can no longer brace a caving fissure. When
I am searching for the exact spot where Emily leapt over the creek, a tiny wood nymph beneath silverbells and sugar maples, behind her
For A.N., after M.K.D. I am in a garden where I know you could identify and name each flower. Fires in Canada send smoke