From “Night Journal” in Zone Journals:

–Our words, like blown kisses, are swallowed by ghosts
Along the way,
their destinations bereft
In a rub of brightness unending:
How distant everything always is,
and yet how close,
Music starting to rise like smoke under the trees.

–Birds sing an atonal row


From tree to tree,

dew chants

Whose songs have no words

from tree to tree

When night puts her dark lens in,
One on this limb, two others back there.

–Words, like all things, are caught in their finitude.
They start here, they finish here
No matter how high they rise–
my judgment is that I know this
And never love anything hard enough
That would stamp me
and sink me suddenly into bliss.