Gnomon

Gnomon

These fake ladybugs eat the real ladybugs.

The trees go up in flame unequally.
On this side of the street, by the river, they are red.
The other half are still green. 

The slender trees get slenderer.
The branches stand there in memory of leaves taken away.

What does the beloved smell like.
Smell the air to see if they are in the world.

The sheriff’s black school bus rattles back toward the courthouse, empty.
Outside the courthouse, on the sidewalk: tiny booklet reading
DON’T COME BACK TO JAIL.

The trees are plunged into their circular grates,
gnomons in sun dials.

Today, the plants must feel stoned.

Bookmarks List/Bedside Table

Currently reading and enjoying:

•    This short essay,  “Through the Closed Door,” by Lee Martin in Post Road Magazine.
•    David Sedaris’s “Now We Are Five,” a reflection on his family and his youngest sister’s death. I read stuff like this and think, “Oh, that’s what good writing looks like.”
•    This haunting, poignant essay, “Face,” by Tara FitzGerald in Vela Mag. So many overlapping pieces here…it will stay with you long after you read it.
•    Scott Woods’s poetry collection, We Over Here Now (more on this later).

I’m also excited that a new little column of mine, featuring books by Ohio authors and publishers, will be appearing in Columbus Alive (an arts newspaper here in town). It’s called (as if there were any other choice for me) “Bibliohio: Recommended Reading from the Heart-Shaped State,” and here’s my first write-up. I have a theory that something special is happening amongst writers and readers in Ohio.

Thanks for reading this week. And you, friends? What else are you thumbing through?

Darkroom

Darkroom

The trees darken, and then,
oh, no more light today.

Heavy dictionary heaved shut.
Voice yelping, kitchen’s closed.

You are so tired that you feel the shadows
gnawing your face.

You are so tired that you dream
of being tired.

Oh Boy

Oh Boy

Oh boy, oh dear, oh
Tetris-y tumbling

of joy into removal
of joy, into anxiety,

oh me, oh my, oh
how do I respond

to the undone world,
the gradual unhinging

not set in any jamb
Observe: a resurgence

of interest in canning,
uncanny devotion to

mason jars, Peter Pan
collars and plaid, if

you don the garb
of wonder and work

very hard maybe they
will let you keep this

Toward a More Elegant Attention

Toward a More Elegant Attention

I.
Oh big branch in the river
who will get you out
who will fetch you

II.
When a dog holds a stick
in his mouth

moves it across the park
and leaves
the memory lives in the dog’s jaw

and in the fallen stick

But when someone burns that stick
and years later, the dog is gone

where can the truth survive

III.
Where did all of these sticks come from
you would think a whole forest
has been released

a passel of arrows

IV.
The remembered pets
how a human calls a human
who was a child alongside them

just to say
remember what a good dog she was

V.
The light
doesn’t want to say
anything to anybody