P O E T R Y and ripple of moon over sun, its center brushed ecstatic pink. Every direction leaves us weak, every cascade of fire, every margin it loosens.
Wrung in the Wind Wind waggles the small oriole, plume-bulged, through the intersection, and he crosses off to the side: ragged wing, swoop black— he nicks the street near the orange jeep, leans in half-numb, I think, with all this strew and whistle. Sky sails to a blue roof on an old Suburban, and nervous dimensions of dust in the rearview mirror. In front, a traffic light bares to green and our engine shudders through the juncture as sun arcs between the jagged air and mountains: this feather draft, small passerine— kinetic gold light curving through and hurtling.
Autumn A day that stayed in place, inaudible from dawn to the strike of evening. Enough time to rest and plunge back across the pebbles to my pens and desk. A squash we didn’t plant has come in gold across the aspen roots. Two hawks burst over, claiming a rotating sky. The desert, normally dry, emits a faint scent, the damp wisp of cedar. Water has gathered in holes we dug. This is why the pangs of time are necessary.
FALL 2017
WEBER
THE CONTEMPORARY WEST
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