Sore-beshitted she was when the old Met was torn down, standing ghost-like by the rubble in her Madame Butterfly kimono as if anticipating her
Dog’s footprint in the muddy sidewalk here where the slab has shifted and sunk a miniature alluvial plane has grown I take yellow bucket
Controlled Burn I’ve seen park workers chivvy the flames as if herding a flock of beasts that half remember their wild past, and if
Siletz River, 1948 My dad thinks the river is his, or he is the river’s. He ferries us upstream on the tide most weekends
