Funereal Rite
Some people recoiled
when I told what I knew
my father would want:
His ashes scattered
Category / Poetry
Beijing
On a street leading away from
the palace, motorized rickshaws
stand. The drivers shout. And we, ten-
thousand kilometers from home,
Ambidextrous
but not really.
When you have no choice,
you can make your body do
almost anything.
Three Pieces of Paper Left
I am looking for a mask.
Tired and hungry and
breathing dust from arid
mountains blowing
across the city cold hot
View from the Bottom of the Hourglass Economy
I can feel past my wallet
almost all the way
to Five Guy Burgers’
big red letters
not today
maybe payday
Archery
The point is what allows the rest of the
arrowhead to enter the flesh of a
honey crisp apple set on the fence post
while you reach back over your shoulder toward
your quill, intent on splitting the fruit in
From Grey’s Ferry, 1999
I’m not sure that what flared
was regulation or if anyone
was on shift or firewatch
or if that ghost-plume after it
was noxious and deadly
but I caught something so violent,
There will not be a train
They never saw it coming,
and there is no other transport.
Angels in handcuffs,
wings clippedclose to the shoulder blades.
Large suitcases left behindat the border
Cinnamon Bun
People are generous except when they
aren’t, so much to either share or envy,
little indifference in between. Thank
you for handing me half your cinnamon
bun and part of the napkin that came with it,
What Hours Were These Ours
1
The ends of weeks–
their mornings, middle hours.
Beginnings. Once
when I brought forgiveness
from my rock garden,
gone two years neglected: