Mornings like this—no drift
         to the canoe, no bass
at the lure—the shiver-calls of loons

Everything’s a couple sizes bigger: a sky
Cutting deep into the streets, hydrants
As hefty as the heads of oxen, the country’s flag

The dry, black branches of winter seen in flight
run singing. Come here to drink
translucent drops on fresh leaves.
Come over here, and try to light that wick.

The year of the hurricane 
(we are speaking) 
              bay roadway 

Which is actually a tree
you cannot recognize

Paul Guest, I am looking forward to your birthday
and the long chain of fitful celebrations
that will follow and be broken

In the daylight there were
small whimpers made by the African cat

An over-large pot of geraniums on the ledge
the curtains part
a view from Kandinsky’s window.

I am living in the Siberia 
of your rose 
there is a family of us