oregonpoetry

Codicil for Grief That he no longer sleeps past four in the morning. That she drank a six-pack of Miller’s before lying down with the handgun. That he found his brother in the backseat of a Ford. That his brother never woke up. That his brother’s notebooks were filled with tiny words. That his brother […]

Call It Water, Call It Rain Reading Joy Harjo in Astoria, I watch words drop through fog onto the ground. At the coffee shop on 15th and Duane, the windows steam water drip drips rils down the pane Outside the drizzle drifts on wind evergreens shift         a gauze fringe between stoic

Dear Any Soldier   I want you to know That the sun still rises and falls In its usual arc Here as there Wind blows through many-colored grass And chases dust Trees Blossom I want you to know That I pass no judgment Small matters of birth and timing Separate us I do not know

The Language Vest In this pocket are nouns. I use them a lot so the pocket is double-stitched and velcroed but not buttoned. Over my heart is the long pocket for adjectives. My fingers no longer fit so I rarely dig down for them but they hold many memories (slithery and bitter). Over my liver

Embracive Night Embracive night whole the moon the uncut melon of it the dreamsicle orange sweetness and white coolness even as it melts itself across the lawn yet remains entire and wholeness of body complete and sound as it is in youth and diminished but also whole in fullness of age complete as it remains leaving