The flush of leaving’s what we notice most— thus, the white glint of a steeple on the ridge across the river under a sky
Out of this fierce world with its indifferent sky how with such delicacy can such mildness come? And you in the center of this
when I came back from Greece the summer I was ten I had new skin on my calves where the old skin had burned
I glide the knife starting where I’ve made an incision, decapitated the bluefish silver head and body and keen teeth