Blue-Grey Place
BLUE-GREY PLACE every morning the same morning the same squawk of the ironing board unfolding the clink of spoon against bowl his oatmeal like tar sugarless the same voices spilling over it midwestern dialects most bland therefore most pleasing to that secret place …
Advice
ADVICE Think buckshot: Not the rifle, but the musket. Ear-horn of powder, arm- deep in black soot. Think flint lock and flash pan. Muzzle blast. Hollow point. Don’t paint the rounds, don’t ready the bayonet. No aim is necessary; nothing is true. Think percussion cap. Any metal as shrapnel. Any spark as lightning; be bottled.
Hiking Alone
HIKING ALONE I shimmy out on sandstone and slate rock, past the soft ledges where the last shrubs grow. I’ve got my camera, unshuttered and silent, ready to take back with me whatever I’ve come here for—sore arms and a sunburn, blue sky like something new. At the floor of the canyon far below a …
The Sense of Being Looked At
THE SENSE OF BEING LOOKED AT Around the corner, footsteps. A heel clicking stone. The slosh of loose gravel and then the no-sound itself conspicuous— even the crickets hold their breath, hush their rough legs while deep inside houses women reading bedtime stories pause to change their endings, one good wish at a time. A …