The Clay Nothing realizes meexcept atoms. Pine trees siftwith snow, glassy fields,my boots not fitting— all that pacing, watching,everything turning. Empty pockets,blue scarf in a draweroutliving its owner, and that other in the mirrorwho looks back at me:she sees the clay. Night among the owls,empty house, a clanging, as carsand planes sail by,blanks of the…

After Wislawa Szymborska Pens write about pens writers about writersPaper is papered overpulped to rebirth Roads lead to other roads We are drivento drive The sun illumineslights and lamps Rain watersa stream Salt is salted in the earthWind airs the air We etch a stone with a stone Can wehear someone listening know someoneknowing? Believesomeone…

Fear Was a Dog Inside My House My father arrives home drunkin our dreamsThe stutterer                returns to the flatcovered in bloodHe vacates canteenswith dead moons in the eyes What worth can this moment have,to know I’ve been left alonesurrounded by silence and sad mornings He happens upon our memory without a horseand wonders ghostlike through…