where the writers are





Rain is not enough

to stop the year 


from turning into

loss and re-entrenchment, 


yet the sound drums

memories down 


like leaves

that curled once, 


loving, and were gone

to join the many torn pages 


of that book

we like to think of 


as a life with

fingers, linden-shaped 


disintegration that the jays

would recognize 


and steal from again,

noisily pecking 


the best of this and that

to make a nest—


some such I do

for you, make small 


homes for words

and gestures, simple songs, 


a way of holding

my head up into wind 


a flight too

knowing to be planned.