Poem I: Song
The throat conspires with the diaphragm
to shape the storm of breath batting through
the body's caverns and chutes, lifting from the tongue against
the mouth's soft catherdral, past lips to particles
nearly split with the gift of embracing such sound on waves
that break into coronets on our lobes and whorls,
such sound that sinks us, then buoys this arrow, this
if you you carry it a little longer, a little closer to the chest
it rifts the heart and then sews the tear-
a constant mending and unmending the voodoo a croon does to us.
Poem II: Miracle Valley
Clouds to the north stretch like racing horses' necks.
Two miles south Mexico is lightning pricked,
hot pins stick the earth and wet.
The valley turns over on its back in the flagging heat
to the dim bloom of sun obscured by mountain range and monsoon
while I turn east to those clouds that trail the star's rotation,
those clouds that have the best of it: my attention,
columns of lavender, gray and pink,
ushering the last light of the earth
through the blue valley, over my head.
Poem III: Salicorne
River born, briny
St. Lawrence, the coast of France
Crunch of green, salt teeth
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