BLUEBIRD [on the artistry of scrap iron men]

It’s as if they cragged out of a foundry...

the Engebretson’s new black driveway

The Engebretson's new black driveway looks desperate...

Somewhere, Jon, somewhere a faith rises...

I will not say nor provoke a pity...

That hooded owl is not hunting today...

Some sacred scarab, it was believed, rolled sun...

I knew the spider was large...

there are no dead birds just several gray feathers...

I tie letters with ribbon ashes with tape...

What demands the wall that we must pierce it...