Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Weekly Worded

Privacy Notice

A satellite knows where I live.
An image of my roof appears
in a database that is collecting
the face of the earth.

Whether I was home that day
the satellite floated by
I don’t know.
I don’t see me in the yard

but I see the willow trees
on each side of the driveway.
They are still summer green,
as if simmered in sunlight.

I wish I could have waved,
improvised a little dance
to signal the invader,
a whirling dervish

so happy to open my doors
the world that googles me
sees a blur, a place I occupied
before turning into air.

Monday, December 21, 2009

Weekly Worded

Either Way

Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.

If I leave
and drive twelve hours,
the day will have burned
like gasoline.
I’ll arrive past sunset,
emptied of light,
the hot engine ticking
like a clock.

If I don’t leave
but stay by the window
watching the sunlight
watercolor the sky,
it will take all day to dry.
I’ll hold the canvas
before me
like a closed door.

Saturday, December 12, 2009

Weekly Worded


At Fort Huachuca
gophers dig tunnels under
the army’s parade ground.

Left. Right. Left. Right.
All night. Orders to fall in.

Sunday, December 6, 2009

Weekly Worded

When the Cows Come Home

If you stack hay in the barn
the cows will return,
like the leaves, the flowers,
and the grass itself.
But for now it’s stone cold
and the brown fields silver
with frost in the morning.
Flocks of black birds
harry the herd, flickering
like notes blown loose
from a musical score,
but the cows don’t care,
don’t lift their heads,
shuffling in one direction
like a composer that hears
how the song will end
the moment it begins.