From Blanca Mountain


It was never meant
to be seen or mentioned, the way
the valley's white scour
is both with and without
an end.   Take the nameless birds
that interject themselves
into the fingers of an utterance.
It's hard not to notice
the final, inconsonant ledge.


Not what you remembered,
but what you couldn't bear to forget.
The way things stop
as you watch them from a distance
or the abandoned stairs.
See the olive trees lean
over the lawn in the late morning, the fish bones
carried to where your rags, or at least
their chalky carcasses, were hung,
on a whim, to dry.


poet's biography ->