Thin fog, cloud paste. The day is a stretch of longing. Camphorous smoke rises from the mouths of golden lions. Once again, it is
—for Denise Last night you sent me longing. Then I couldn’t sleep. I remembered a campfire, someone burning a finger, the smell of wood
—for Ron Koertge and signs and abominations and what we were born for, dogs bouncing the fields—cur, mutt, stray. When we find a few