Status Updates From Sestets: Poems

The older I become, the more the landscape resembles me.

In my dreams she's returned just like this, over a hundred times. / She knows what I'm looking for, / Partially her, / partially what she comes back not to tell me.

It is the hour of transmutation...

If tree is tree in English / and albedo in Italian, / That's as close as we can come / To divinity...

the pine trees hold their breaths

"It's Sweet to Be Remembered"

No one's remembered much longer than a rock / is remembered beside the road ...

Still how nice to imagine some kid someday / picking that rock up and holding it in his hand / Briefly before he chucks it / Deep into the woods in a sunny spot in the tall grass.

The rust will remain in the trees, / and pine needles stretch their necks, / Their tiny necks, and sunlight will snore in the limp grass.

No matter what anyone says, / life and death are not equal -- / No matter what time of year, / No matter how loud the grasshopper sings, / no matter how far he flies.

The entrance to hell is just a tiny hole in the ground / The size of an old pecan, soul-sized, horizon-sized.