Skip to content
P
o
e
m
s

I looked for it in the afterlight lapping the edge

of the long valley. I sought it in canopy, in the horizon’s

fringe, past wavering powerlines, the transistor station

newly painted. I threaded the margin

between the drainage wash and the waste river,

thinking I would find it there. I wandered a vertiginous

wood, speaking slurs, letting them mash in the bramble.

I let the ridiculous names of the Lord become hum

on the end of the tongue. I told stories so I wouldn’t

have to know myself as I was. I threw my voice

into a dense thicket, as though it would end

there. And when the voice came back—still tangled

in stupid exuberance and knowing nothing—I knew

finally that the dispensation selects itself.

If a child I will go nevertheless where I am sent.

What words are offered I will allow in the mouth.