Psalm

Hear me, O Lord! Lord of woods and gullies, Lord of dim and root...

O! Manic Youth

I pray for winter. Summer is fat and beyond repair...

Some prime trauma turns this thing...

This echo now to lovers far behind...

Joy and similar discontents break...

Build it — that crooked temple, your crooked temple...

A blink is a pause and a stanza breaks...

Where then does a kiss go when it leaves your lips...

Ten thousand hatchlings stride the web...

Take every word you cannot write...