When the house of flesh disappears in an earthquake of its own making, this house of wood and glass will stay fixed in its
A girl spills out of bone thin as birch startled Her voice turns the bowl on its edge Watch for eggs in the snow
In Chicago, and its laughing skirt of cornfields the dryness like the bone-flesh of a desert is running under the long, lean ripples of
I dream of stalks, my brother Michael getting lost between, on a weekend trip to the Fornier’s in an unknown town in New Hampshire.