On the trail, / carnage, / strips of fur and flesh, / puddles of blood / the size of small change …

your own name for Bray Street, since from the road / it sounds like engines revving behind you which never / come, just the moans from the tips of white pines / as the wind whistles through their green strands …

Let me salute the souls / that drink the furies of tides / with their tumblers of oats…

We're already oblivion we will be,/ the elemental dust that does not know/ us — dust that was red Adam and is now/ all men…

Shifting Baseline theory– suddenly apathy has context; / you cannot mourn what was never potted / and sprouted / in your garden …

Smoke cloaked the sun / while fire crews in tugs / poured water onto water…

I am subsumed in a state of flow, / submerged in a fast river sluice, / waters course in laminar planes / caressing trunk and limbs…

Robins spend months / harvesting crab apples. Didn’t // they used to migrate? In February, / they think it’s spring…