Goldenrod: Poems

We say in the grand scheme of things as if there were one. We say that's not how the world works as if the world works.

I am offering the only thing I have. I am holding out my hand, feeding myself to the hungry future.

The body remains a house unaware of its rooms.

My handwriting is all over these woods. No, my handwriting is these woods, each tree a half-print, half-cursive scrawl, each loop a limb. My house is somewhere here, & I have scribbled myself inside it. What is home but a book we write, then read again & again, each time dog-earing different pages...

That bit of blue doesn't belong to them, and they don't belong to the sky, or to the earth, or to us. Isn't that what you've been taught — nothing is ours? Haven't you learned to keep the loosest possible hold?

What is home but a book we write, then read again & again, each time dog-earing different pages.

I’ve talked so much about loving the world without any idea how to do it.

I know the kind of wife I need and I become her

We say ‘in the grand scheme of things’ as if there were one. We say ‘that’s not how the world works’ as if the world works.

When I think likeness, I think tears — blue always for water, blue running through and under everything.