Joseph Massey

 

Four poems from November Graph

Ourselves
in place — an edge
the weather's

wrought — some-
thing we read —
we hold —

we're the text of.



***



Power lines
dent the dawn.

What words I
woke with

dissolve.



***



after Bronk

Words
occur
to gather

a world —

not the

world.



***



Enough to make
the foliage
flinch,

wind slits.

Music sifts

out of a house.