Spring again & I too have molted

& crazed the bell with buckshot

& sent the sparrow flying scared

from the copse & whittled shadows


the son is a sparrow

the tilled field is a sparrow

the sparrow opens like a door

the door opens like a wail

the sparrow is every room in the house

the sparrow is the falling leaf

at the break of dog & fire

the sparrow is the god of the roads

father is a sparrow

the sparrow bemusedly circles in battle sleep

I make what I can of the sparrow

& it makes what it can of me

I leave it behind & it leaves me behind

I return home & the sparrow is waiting in a bramble

A Word May Be Filled with Sadness as a Glass Would with Drink


Most certainly now is a time that

I can say without trepidation

that my insides are not exploding,

but I recollect a time when I walked

with my friend beside my second favorite

graveyard in Fayetteville, Arkansas,

& it was nighttime, of course, & relatively

quiet, & the stars were lisping their many

& mindless stories, & all, & we walked

in the night, simply, each of us, I felt,

& we talked about poetry & poets

& ideas that we loved, shining from inside,

like something perfect, or beautiful,

shining maybe like a song or Jerusalem.