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.