Spring Thaw

Box the crates of rejection letters, and stash them in the drip line. Ball up the sticky notes and stuff them in your cheeks. Shred the divorce papers, the receipts from houses ago. Stop at the top of the stairs by her meaty fist, years since you circled it with your fingers; years, as the…

Dawn chorus of crows

The waking hour. Silver light through the trees and a high moan of boxcars dopplering. The house asleep. The baby breathing. Fear at my throat. Or at least loss, for tempus fugit: that old chestnut. Perhaps we could Peter Pan, forever moving west. Or maybe, as the poet said, west is Everywhere. A verb: we…