As Lorna falls across Freddy, and Bernadette,
who grew up in a rainy village of one factory
in upper New York, a schoolgirl toed and twisted

riding in the pick-up
between the father and the son
I hardly know the older

I never sit in a canoe but rest my bare knees
on the curved ribs of the bow
to feel the water slap and ease through canvas

Not until I learned how to transform my childhood dreams into tomorrow’s crust of bread did I become truly successful at begging. Now I’m able to pick and choose, and there are only a few select areas I’ll work. Of primary importance is the presence of an electrical outlet. 

Maria, you are dead.
But you probably knew that.
We miss you.

It is Sunday, day of roughhousing. We are let out in the woods. The young boys wrestle and butt their heads together like sheep—a circle forms; claps and shouts fill the air. The women, brown and glossy, gather round the banjo player, or simply lie in the sun, legs and aprons folded.

In her dream
the wind blew her vagina out the bedroom
down the Spanish steps

I put the bacon into the pan.
It lies there, lank and perfectly relaxed.
After a few minutes, though, a marvelous transformation

I am riding down Fifth Avenue on a bus. A woman touches my leg and speaks of forests. My need unfolds like a newborn’s limb, stiff and uncertain. She whispers close and I tremble as we reach my stop.

Getting ten thousand feet “closer to nature”
by Desolation Trail
they had seen their breath in mid-July.