She paced the church cell walls, not to escape but to touch, yearning for the stories of those passing by.

Though there are no boats on the channel only the moon leaving a wake

Blessed are you who vie with ants and all trespassing pests for yours is the companionship of angels.

Wade into slow rolling surf with blunted questions. Stay ankle deep for the length of a tide.

Each pea becomes a miniature world in a galaxy of music, worlds rolling between God’s fingers.

By eminent domain, these squatters stake their claim, keeping house, to the delight of all of us...

Come with your lemon soap and witch hazel-scented wings and cleanse us...

Streams that carry my own thoughts that flow from watershed moments, and pour down the fall line

Anticipate the music – where it will be not where it is. Half a turn, please.

In this geographical location, the old one comes face to face with metaphysical questions.

In her face, I find grief’s white- rose solitude: white as sawn wood.

I wasn't as stupid as I made out to laugh at your silly jokes. But I don't regret my stupidity.

Even as I sleep, the night owls still watch like mothers. Last night, when I curled my body into its crescent of sleep,

When the ship began rocking and rolling, I would slip away—done with strolling

Steady heat, dough rising

the fragile, edgy place we pretend to believe is constant even as the cliffs fall into the sea

But aren’t they in the moments when we call to each other as if at Julian’s veiled window never knowing the others’ true face?

No one cares that he is beautiful and delicate.

We won’t dwell on the way overnight lows and ice reliquaried spring

I could never have imagined how beautiful a barn could be