Watch out for power
for its avalanche can bury you,
snow, snow, snow, smothering your mountain.

On the Irish coast, a rutted road
traced a winding track along the wind-
scored face of a limestone bluff.

Perhaps the earth is floating,
I do not know.
Perhaps the stars are little paper cutups

From the sea came a hand,
ignorant as a penny,
troubled with the salt of its mother,

At my wedding, my father, ten years dead,
practices what Isaac Babel called
         the "genre of silence"—that is,

Naomi said, Go home girls, I'm cursed,

and we clutched, cried No! No!
the proper length of time. Then

have never known starvation nor plenitude
and unless the order of the world 
changes, I won’t. 

Where were you, nymphs,
when I was learning to apply
the proper plaster of Paris and papier-mâché

All day I think about what to do with the day.
I walk down the street for a coffee and to think
About what to do after that.

 Ruffle and tuck, river fabric wags doggedly towards ocean,
Heaping surface on surface, its cadence a gown.

Perpetually beneath lurks stillness, a calm inseam sewn