Way of the Mountain #188

Rivers are the lifeblood of the planet, and the sculptors of mountains. Where I live, on the cusp between the jagged peaks of the Southern Rockies and the mesa tops of the Colorado Plateau, winter is finally relinquishing its hold and mud season still in force. Soon we will have our brief warmth, after bouts of storms and possibly even late snows.

Sometimes it seems like we live in a world of two seasons in Colorado — winter and summer, and what’s between them is a no-person’s-land where anything can happen — hot sun, cold snow, driving rain. Here’s a selection of short poems for this season between seasons.

— Art Goodtimes
Maverick Draw

Mazurka

Early morning snow flurry melts
within an hour.

During which, Dream Queen,
what did you achieve?

I listened to a crow’s mazurka
on a pebble roof.

— Anne Valley-Fox
Santa Fe

Common Sense #14

People who hold themselves
with the grace of a cat
do not fear the jump
from one platform
to the other

— David Patton
St. Louis

Jail Bait

Legs forming a perfect four,
bare shoulder leaning
into the side of the shore’s
ramshackle tackle shop.

Hook, line…

Johnny rsvp’d twice
before lock up.

— Kierstin Bridger
Ridgway

Envy 2

I envy the dirty and alive,
the sleeping tired
Who rise to no care
but to get out there
And ride snow water dirt
Lungs pounding and tight,
cursing and vivid.

— Bryan Shuman
Laramie

Anabasis

In spite of my
skinned knees

I pull myself up
square my shoulders

and keep on
going.

— Nancy Davenport
Menlo Park

On The Road

The gray swirls of its coat
still startling in the daylight,
the wildcat’s
guts spill across the Sumatran highway
and confirm its determination
in this jungle
to survive.

— James Penha
New Verse News
Jakarta

The Raindrops

Play the aspen leaves
Like piano keys.
They do not recite; they write.
And they recall nothing.
Bathe me
In symphony.
I am shattered; I am mended.
And this is my religion.

— Erin Duggin
Leadville

 

 

Way of the Mountain #186

I love MG’s Mountain Dog issue. Inter-species friendships, particularly with dogs, cats or horses, assume an importance in rural lives far beyond the concept of pets. They often become an integral member of a family, working partners, familiars whom we come to love deeply and depend on. The mother of my oldest son had a wonderful mixed breed named after one of the sites at the Navajo National Monument. We called her “Seel” for short. Although nearly blind, she was an incredible fetch hound, and would begin a scent-led spiraling circle search if she lost sight of any stick thrown — something that happened a lot. Nevertheless, she’d invariably come up with the stick, having never stopped looking. I still dream about that wonderful playmate and companion.

For the last several years, I’ve had the good fortune to participate in a gathering of Ish poets at Shi Shi beach in the Olympic National Park and just outside the Makah Reservation at Neah Bay. The late poet Robert Sund had a cabin near Petroleum Creek at Shi Shi, and he was the one to give the name Ish River Country to the Pacific Northwest’s coastal bioregion, since so many of its rivers ended in the suffix “ish” (Duwamish, Snohomish, Skokomish, etc.).

This month we’re featuring one of the finest Ish poets, Tim McNulty. An award-winning nature writer and essayist, his books of poetry include “Blue Mountain Dusk” (Pleasure Boat Studio) and “Pawtracks” (Copper Canyon Press), as well as some nine chapbooks. His natural history of the Olympic National Park is the definitive guide to this national treasure.

— Art Goodtimes
Maverick Draw

Sunset, Sourdough Mountain Lookout

Late flush of evening cloudlight
glowing through rippled window glass.

Steam curling from teacup
in cool night air.

Only the mountains are still.

— Tim McNulty,
Sequim

Wild Pears
(Pyrus serotina)

At the waterfall gorge
in Tai Lam Chung valley
Ka-shiang brings
a sprig of wild pears.

Fruits no bigger than mountain berries,
but sweet and chewy —
same taste as the crisp
Asian pears
from the market at Kowloon Tong,

where each small globe is wrapped
in delicate paper mesh…
only wilder.

— Tim McNulty
Sequim

No One’s Ark

I have squandered
the beasts of the earth
& must remake them.
It is enough.
Otter, platypus, snake & dove,
Zebra, porcupine, elk & dog:
Once you were only photographs,
Now you are only words.

— Quinten Collier
Mark Fischer Prizewinner
Clifton

Muriel Rukeyser

Your poems shock
the way water lilies burning in a museum
shock the moneyed. With fragrant treason
you begged even the rich,
to understand, as you spoke
to each generation as that generation,
your dark hair curled in the Thirties
by a passion electric for justice.

— Jackie St. Joan
Excerpt from “Letter to Muriel Rukeyser at the End of the 20th Century”
Denver

Saddle Math

One coyote,
a dozen howls.

One cowboy,
a thousand cows.

One moon,
a million stars.

One Ford,
a billion cars.

— David Feela
feelasophy.blogspot.com
Arriola

Waking Up

the eastern sun licks
ice crystals from my front door
delicious breakfast

 — Carol Bell
Ft. Collins

Way of the Mountain #185

Thanks to the forbearance of our long-suffering editor, I’ve been given the opportunity to forego the pittance in recompense that passes for reward to our star-studded (and variously tatted) mountain bards — whose work avalanches into these pages with all the ragged energy of an out-of-control skier but with the compact wallop of a lyric two-by-four. Instead of issuing barely enough bar bucks to buy a good night’s drunk, we’ll be entering each poem accepted for MG’s pages into two annual $100 awards — the Way of the Mountain Prize (to be selected by yours truly for the year’s poem best representing Dolores LaChapelle’s “Way of the Mountain”) and a Karen Chamberlain Prize (for the year’s best poem as voted on by our readers). Send your nominations from any poems from 2011’s issues of MG to: poetry@mountaingazette.com

And for those of you who live outside the distributed reach of our tireless bicycle pedalers, we’ll promise to toss you a hard copy of the issue with your piece in it. For official submission guidelines, click here.

— Art Goodtimes
Cloud Acre

Religion

Parched and staggering,
I have swallowed sweet draughts
from trickling desert springs,
prayerfully tasting
the liquid’s own journey
through cloud, stone, and sand.

Water, like smoke, like music,
moves between worlds.

There is no religion
like water in a dry land.

— Eric Walter
Portland

Morning Sun Through Glass

Segmented glasses on the sill,
yellow, red, green, blue,
pouring coloured light to spill
and drip on things beyond my view.

Like this, my heart, be pieced together,
pooling colour where you will
shine through, shine through like this forever
— yellow, red, green, blue.

— Cally Conan-Davies
Australian poet visiting U.S.
Manitou Springs

The Buddha´s Life

He shoved off gently from
the river bank and glided
through the water soundlessly.

The fish would have been
hard-pressed to bear witness
to his passing.

In truth if it were not
for this poem it
never really happened.

— Larry Grieco
Black Hawk

Blunt

Hope you all had a good time.
I was babysitting a genius.
Stupid young people.
Ignorant blessings.

Despite the signal fires of love
& intelligence by you all,
this Age of Endarkenment keeps
lapping at my feet.

Arab Spring, Occupy, are
sweet reactive threads…
But still, G. Benn may have
had it right:

“to live in the dark,
to do in the dark
what we can.”

— Jack Mueller
Creator of Budada
Log Hill Village

Endo

Head upside home fried
Champagne powder, I lip-smack
Fatback and ignore
Scores of dive judges above
Grinning from slack chair front row

— Uche Ogbuji
uche.ogbuji.net
Superior

Why The Man Wore Red Shirts

Fred carried a weasel under his jacket.
His friends thought its heavy
breathing was his heart.
But at meetings it would
gnaw on him, and in bed
it would hang from his left nipple.

— Jared Smith
Author, “Grassroots”
Lafayette

Way of the Mountain #184

visions

clear as cut glass

& just as dangerous

David Rothman, head of a new MFA program at Western State College in Gunnison, who appeared in the October issue of MG, has taken a serious swipe at Language Poetry in responding to a on-line lit ‘zine query from Cameron Scott of Colorado’s Roaring Fork Valley. Find it at http://formalversemfa.org/2011/05/16/language-poetry-two-words-two-lies 

Colorado’s other poetically notorious David would be David Mason, the state’s latest poet laureate, named by Gov. Ritter several years ago. A professor at Colorado College, Mason has been living up to a promise to visit every county in the state (including a tour this fall around the Western Slope). He’s written criticism, loves to perform, has won a number of awards, boasts a classic narrative verse poem in Ludlow (Red Hen Press, Pasadena, CA, 2007) and is featured in this month’s Way of the Mountain.
— Art Goodtimes

I Hear the Guitar

The shadow of a bat
across my page at night
is lighter than a thought
and just as late.

I drink to the guitar
and passing girls who wear
hibiscus in their hair,
scenting the air.

— David Mason, Colorado Poet Laureate
Manitou Springs

Written While Hiking

mountain skunk taunting
now all our remembrances
honor aftershocks

— Carol Bell
Ft. Collins

Running Tanka

Running on the long
dirt road, it is four miles
before my mind
slows down enough
to join my body.

— Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
Placerville

Postcard

Poetry is a
silly business.

Unnecessary
& complete.

— Jack Mueller
Log Hill Village

Waking Life

The indentation
of a trail
cut through snow.

The dark bark
of pines
flocked with white.

The stare of
a deer
before its leap.

A canvas
of waking life
no museum can hold.

— Linda Keller
Denver

What the Hopi Said

A Hopi Indian once said
to hop over the Acropolis
with an Arizona spruce branch
held tightly in your hand
waving on Kachina Spirits
of the San Francisco Peaks
saying the Greeks need rain
since all their gods are dead.

— Richard F. Fleck
Denver

Way of the Mountain #183

I cut some of my best performance teeth in bars, reading poetry above the clink of glasses and the din of boisterous patrons. It sharpens one’s work. If you can grab the intoxicated so they stop and really listen, you’ve done something remarkable.

But this month I want to celebrate a poet who didn’t read in bars much, but who stood in a trench with his fellow soldiers far too close to an early atom bomb blast. The experience led him, by various routes, to become a poet/professor and a peacenik. Leonard “Red” Bird was a marvelous educator, who taught his students at Fort Lewis College in Durango to love literature — from Shakespeare to Bukowski.

I had the good fortune to read in his class, watch him teach and become his friend. The last time I saw him was at the San Miguel de Allende Poetry Festival in Mexico last winter (when he shared with me the poem below), and he was as vibrant and full of life as ever, in spite of the sickness that would eventually take him from us. The whole idea of poet laureates is so Brit and high-tone that it seems antithetical to the subversive art of poetry. But Red Bird was my poetry hero when I came to Southwestern Colorado. He may not have been a laureate, but he was an honest, authentic, Western voice with a message of peace and love — a quintessential Way of the Mountain Poet.
— Art Goodtimes
Cloud Acre

Send all poetry submissions to poetry@mountaingazette.com

So Shine!

Each budding self exists
As one translucent slice of time
That plays across the radiant sun
But once. Every breath
Depletes the finite gift.

Even at birth, as we swim
Towards first breath, we catapult
Into space as glorious rainbows,
And fade just short
Of bridging the abyss.
So plunge into the dance, and shine.

— Leonard “Red” Bird

Coyote

Out on the ranch and loping home.
Perfect evening. Perfect solitude
Horse and I.

Suddenly, coyote song
in surround sound. Pull to a stop.
Song on the left and song on the right.

Coyote right in front of us
singing away. Lucky to see
her song being sung!

— Therese Rocamora
Leadville, Colorado

Solo

Before me
the plain stretches outward
begging to be clothed in footsteps
and suddenly my world
is too small to contain my wild …

One day
to be myself
in the mountains.

— Charles Allen
Salem, Oregon

Stories

Stories are just pins
Holding up a dress as big
As this star-strewn sky

(Let’s take it off, look
each other in the eye)

Ellen Marie Metrick
San Miguel County Poet Laureate
Norwood

Monsoon

The show is in town
It’s hard to miss
Black veils drape the stage

Behind the scenes
torrents of compassion
bathe the earth in a wet caress

The curtains part
The performers appear
Arizona Rose Penstemon

Columbine Purple Loco
Aster Paintbrush
Wandbloom

— Eric Smith
Flagstaff


Way of the Mountain #182

It’s exciting to see the Western Slope of Colorado hosting its second regional poetry festival of 2011. After this spring’s greatly successful Karen Chamberlain Poetry Festival in Carbondale (honoring a former poetry editor here at MG and presented by the Thunder River Theatre Company), Sandra Dorr and the Western Colorado Writers Forum is featuring The Language of This Land in Grand Junction, Oct. 7-9. Colorado Poet Laureate David Mason will be one of the lead performers.

Robert King has been an important voice for poetry throughout Colorado. His on-line directory of state poets — the Colorado Poets Center — is an essential listing of over 140 poets, bios, photos, contact info, poem samples and more recently a quarterly newsletter that keeps poets in touch with publications and poetry happenings around the state www.coloradopoetscenter.org

King is also a very fine poet, and his latest work was this year’s winner of the Grayson Books Chapbook Competition. “Rodin & Co.” is an outgrowth of King’s fascination with the famous sculptor after a visit to the Rodin Museum in Philadelphia. Included herein is a poem from the new book. For more info, visit King’s personal website: http://robertkingpoet.com
— Art Goodtimes
Cloud Acre

Western Slope Poet Laureate Art Goodtimes is a 4th-term San Miguel County Commissioner, co-chair of the Colorado Green Party, fungophile, basketweaver and spud farmer. http://goodtimespoetlaureate.blogspot.com/

 

Send poetry submissions to poetry@mountaingazette.com

Winter Carnival, 1979

Deep in my heart there is a party barn.
The band has run a cable from the dorm
And now everyone is dancing, drinking,
Laughing, flirting, yelling, not really thinking
About Monday’s classes or graduation.
And why not? Most real sadness is yet to come.
Which is why cocky boys pour beer down the stairs
Then surf the suds on their bare chests in February,
For this is Carnival, and there are girls to impress…
And what did you expect? A city on a hill?

— David Rothman
Poetry Director, Western State College MFA in Creative Writing
Boulder/Crested Butte 

Surfaces
Only innumerable surfaces, undulations without end.
 — Rilke

He’d execute a contour of the body
sometimes by candlelight, each muscle’s edge
found as light flamed up around the flesh

rolling through dark, a series of horizons,
a single planet always arriving,
the human form with its “infinite

number of outlines” he loved, who watched these men,
these women, move in the light, their darkness
slowly lost, one shadow at a time.

 — Robert King
Greeley, Colorado

Pure

Light seeps in
under door
pure entry

one red leaf
in the road
omen of fall

in the garden
fragrant petunias
full-blossomed cannas
belie season’s finale

I give you this:
take it
and go on

— Linda Keller
Denver

Of wisdom

it steps armored out of the head
and commits itself

to battle
itself and teaches us to prize

the self-made wound
by displaying its purple bruise
 

— Dan Beachy-Quick
Fort Collins

Lunch

In my red bowl, last fall’s
Hawkswing mushrooms (Hydnum imbricatum)
Gathered with whistling kids
Nudge beet greens I plucked yesterday
From my garden in the hailstorm
Which explains the store-bought yellow squash
And miso for stock; nothing ever
Tasted so good.

 — Ellen Metrick
San Miguel County Poet Laureate
Norwood, Colorado

Way of the Mountain #181

Way of the Mountain PoetryCatch two of Denver’s star performance goddesses, Zsudayka Nzinga and Bianca Mikahn, as well as rap/DJ phenom Thrax, at Shroomfest31 in Telluride, Aug. 18-21. Nice to see poetry woven into a conference on fungal allies.

Summertime. Time to take poetry outdoors. Through windows. Out into the open air. The Japanese would float poems down creeks on paper boats, catch them and read them aloud to those within earshot.

What’s a comparable ritual in our day? Trolling poems like cyber bait hoping to snare the lyric valuables on YouTube? Whatever you’re doing, take it outside. That’s the way of the mountain.

Art Goodtimes, Cloud Acre

 

Lesson

The classroom guest
instructed the students
to first remove the left,
then the right shoe,

sniff the small, fragrant interior
of each and describe
their discoveries
in three brief lines.

“Ahhhh”, said Marta, eight,
to seven and a half year old Tomas,
“this time they have sent us
a real poet”

— Barbara Ford
Poncha Springs, CO

On the Mountain
(excerpt)

…Standing on a rim of belligerent stone-
cemented sand, athwart a fast moraine, the old man
is shooting the Moon. You Bastard Moon. You,
you Bastard, he screams … encounters nothing …
late at night, the light goes black, he goes out,
and he comes back from the edge, to sing, blow his flute
… immersed in nothing … comes
back from the edge with a little something
up his sleeve, a little something to leave
for the young man on the mountain.

 — Danny Rosen
Stargazing Mage of Lithic Press
Fruita, CO

Stone Belly #5

Third day of snow, power lines
down all over the mountain.

But Stone Belly gets his juice
from other realms —
wood, hot stews, whiskey,
and fiery chili.

He hasn’t been this happy all year.

— Michael Adams
Fire Giggler
Lafayette, CO

August

august is when the monarch truly is
king, long before fall migrations begin.

august is setting records: how high
can you make your skateboard jump?

how many seconds can you hold your breath?
how many hours can you dance at the dance

marathon holding your partner close, hoping
to be the last couple to survive?

 — Dennis Fritzinger
Earth First! Journal Poetry Editor
Berkeley, CA

Do not dismiss

the many gifts
in cliff
and loam
and fellowship,

the endless shifts,

the unadorned,
the bottom line,

that little bit
of wriggling
required to bring
the little tingle
up the spine.

— Wendy Videlock
Poetry Ace
Grand Junction, CO

Way of the Mountain #180

Publication and performance are the twin pillars of the poetry world. Personally, I’m a fan of crossovers, but I dig reading written poems and I love hearing performance poetry — slam, hip-hop, open mike. Or the Gourd Circle — a gathering of friends for dinner and several rounds of telling stories, poetry & song.

But poetry can be more than just outreach to an audience. For some, it is valuable personal practice. Valerie Haugen of Glenwood Springs falls in love with a new poet a day. Lorine Niedecker. Amy Lowell. Gerard Manley Hopkins. Their words, insights and stylistic breakthroughs inform her poetry. Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer of Placerville has made a lyric practice of writing a poem a day. After going on three years of this, she’s become a master of capturing language and experience. Both great personal practices. And both poets take advantage of the Web’s blogosphere to “publish” their work and explorations.

Another bright exploratory star flames out … Gregory Greyhawk was one of those giant souls, huge-hearted, a string of his own hockey teeth pearled around his neck. Brilliant, erratic. I loved being around him. Anything could happen, and sometimes did … I just ordered his book, “Wailing Heaven, Whistling in Hell” (Howling Dog Press, Berthoud, Colorado, 1996) … Gonna miss the wrap of his big arm as we caromed down a Denver sidewalk, and the wild grin of his gap-toothed smile. — Art Goodtimes, Cloud Acre

Remembering Karen Chamberlain

lanky stalk of grass
singing in the autumn wind
your voice packed with seeds
— Carol Bell
Ft. Collins

Cool Dad

My dad, who never blows his cool
the day i left for Vietnam
sat down to a stack of homemade buttermilk pancakes
and poured vinegar on them, by mistake.
— Dennis Fritzinger
Earth First! Journal editor
Berkeley

P.S.

As for us, yes, the young still go to war,
And wars continue at the speed of darkness,
Not the world wars you expected, but the others,
Wars of despisals in our countries, in our cities, in other countries and cities.
Promises and solidarity collapsed, and in the confusion
justice circles this sweating planet, looking for somewhere to land.
— Jackie St. Joan
Excerpt  from “Letter to Muriel Rukeyser at the End of the 20th Century”
Denver

Rainforest Bedroom
(excerpt)

…jaguar has moved into the bedroom
meadowlarks are nesting in the corner
sunfish swim in the water glass on the nightstand
black widow makes a web in your shoe
the bed is a jungle
and it’s raining emeralds
— Galaxy Dancer
Durango

 

While Considering Demolition

I ask my teacher
about walls.
She says, Notice them.
I ask,
What’s on the other side?
She says, You are.
— Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
Placerville

Way of the Mountain #179

After being named poet laureate of Colorado’s Western Slope, it’s been wonderful to hook up with poet laureate of the Colorado Springs region, Jim Ciletti. David Mason of that same area is Colorado’s state poet laureate. My good friend Joan Logghe is poet laureate of Santa Fe (her new book, “The Singing Bowl,” from the University of New Mexico Press in Albuquerque, is a dazzler). California’s poet laureate was a classmate of mine in the writing department of San Francisco State, Carol Muske-Dukes. And finally, Elle Metrick of Norwood (who’s editor of the local paper, the Post) has taken the baton from Rosemerry Wahtola-Trommer and is the new San Miguel County poet laureate. It’s a nice way to honor poets who are often invisible to the community at large. This puts them out in the public eye. If your town or county wants to create such an honorary position, get a hold of me at poetry@mountaingazette.com and I can send you some draft resolutions.

This month’s featured book and poet is Norman Shaefer’s “The Sunny Top of California: Sierra Nevada Poems & A Story (La Alameda Press, Albuquerque, 2010). It’s beautifully designed by master bookmaker JB Bryant, has an Obata woodblock on the cover and lively poems (and a story) that will charm lovers of mountains and verse in the same way that Chinese poets memorialized the mountains of their land.
— Art Goodtimes

Caveat

My stubble grows white
among a hundred granite peaks.
Passions are never easily put aside.
Edging across a narrow arête,
manteling an airy summit block;
the same thing that makes you live
can kill you in the end.
Norman Schaefer
from “The Sunny Top of California” (La Alameda Press, Albuquerque, 2010)

Two-liner

Easy to say,
hard to clean
— Jack Mueller
Hermit of Log Hill
Colorado

Visible

I see you. Yes. You are
the impossible route
up granite, seen only
one move at a time,
found more by fingertip
than eye.

I see you. Yes. You are
the line through trees
in deep powder, seen
then lost, visible
to the knees, a sense
of give, then ground.

I see you. Yes. You are
the smooth tongue,
the reflection of sky
leading the way through
white churn water
where the line is fine,
a single oar-dip
between slide
and flip.
— Elle Metrick
San Miguel County Poet Laureate
Norwood, CO

At the Karen Chamberlain Poetry Festival

like wild hummingbirds
we gather at the feeder
gulping poetry
— Carol Bell
Haiku a Day Practice
Fort Colliins

The Road

May the road
rise up to greet you
as you face down
fall upon it.
— Danny Rosen
Stargazing Mage of Lithic Press
Fruita

Way of the Mountain #178

Besides the dazzling performance of Sandra Cisneros, the highlight for me at San Miguel de Allende’s Sixth Annual International Writers Conferenced this past February was the Carnitas Fest at Simple Choice Farm on the road to Jalpa and the Talking Gourds Fire Circle, co-led with poet/teacher Judyth Hill of “Wage Peace” fame — shadows of cacti and bougainvillea tinkling like wind chimes in the full moonlight.

I was surprised and deeply honored to be named Poet Laureate for Colorado’s Western Slope at the first (very successful) Karen Chamberlain Poetry Festival in Carbondale this past March. Karen was the former editor of MG’s poetry page and a fine writer and poet with many posthumous works still to surface. The Norwood Post published the best account of that event in their March 30 issue.
Art Goodtimes

Delivery to Lakota (an excerpt)

…There’s a right way
to put fire
and water together.

The lava rocks …
They bring the men back
to their senses
back to the table.

I was a delivery boy from Colorado.
We’ve got volcanoes
we don’t even know how to use.
— Stewart Warren, Albuquerque

Winter Cracked Open

Winter cracked open;
there lay spring,
soft colored thing.
Take me, she said,
swallow me whole.

And summer did.

Summer burst open,
there was autumn,
audacious thing.
Watch me, she said.
Just watch me fall.

And winter did.
— Wendy Videlock, Poetry mag regular, Grand Junction, CO

Walking Like Water

At the high end of the arroyo
you abandon your feet to gravity
you avoid straight lines
you are drawn to the outside of the curve
you inspect all cutbank holes
you waltz below boulders humming softly
your feet etch lines in the sand but
you never look back

in town others will talk as
you follow the grade into traffic
your curves confuse other pedestrians
you look for burrows where there are none
you walk in circles below trash cans
and even when you drag your feet
the ground will not receive
your passing
— Peter Anderson, MG Poetry Editor Emeritus, Crestone, CO

Lone Swimmer, Lake Powell

And what should I make
of you, your light

cast on the world just outside
of the world, the island

just around the corner.
Your breaths pull tides, your eyes

half open. White cap, black suit,
body pushing through night,

I would give over completely
to understand

the flooded world
settling below your wake.
— Cameron Scott, Poetry Editor of “Rise Forms”, Basalt, CO

According to the Yuma

It is the deer
who draw the light
into their bodies
each day.

What is left
men call
darkness
— Steve Sanfield, “The Rain Begins Below” (Larkspur Press, Kentucky, 2005)