I am grateful, especially to the ones whose names I don’t know and can never learn. Nameless, faceless, I thank you. You cut the
MOUNTAIN SORREL Oh the myrtle so bright. The eyeslip, the bee. Still and know. And how sad I am, and for days on end.
You’re so light, sister bird-foot, you gust and whistle up hill and down the side I can’t quite see, where the ridges resurrect the
after Yeats I’m getting up soon, and going to the lake, where my father’s cabin leans toward the north, more chinks between the logs