from Correspondence

     a door left open to               the bee disheveling
         the page’s room               today’s rose
          availing quiet               enters and
  a soft await               comes away

across what intervenes               an ember
in the sleeping stacks               may be stored
         a stir               say how long
          forth of wings              in careful ash



                                 what sifts these days
puff of dust                     as smoke
an empty message
                                 at most
I meant to say                  attend

     a half-remembered map





                                    rain on
I go                                   the green
bare                                   winter field


                                       what is
                                   this ease
                                   hungers me

to meet                                earth’s mouths 
you                                    open and
                                       the fires

the boat has its own light
the boat of bone


by night