Collecting Against Loss Conifer conesarranged from egg-sizedto almond. Two oval stonesmy mother paintedas iridescent insects. Quail feathershe found on the farmand mailed to me, enfolded in tissue. Seashells and polished rocksbought during childhoodbeach trips. Walnut shell half.Two tiny acorns:One wearing its hat,one bald. Piano music I never play:Chopin’s “Raindrop Prelude,”Grieg’s “Butterfly.” My late sister’s books:One more copy of Jane EyreI didn’t need, but the plane ticketshe used as bookmarkmade her real again. Keys to lost padlocks.Photos of peopleI never talk to. Vintage wool coatI’m scared to wear,its red satin lining already torn. The last item my mother sentbefore evening mantled her mind:Hospital bracelet from the day I was born. Janna…

Day Break …the acoustic nature of sheets―Brian Turner “Alexa, Awake” What whispers in the corners, whiskers feline in the dawn light? Sounds I assemble from the silent slip of feet on sheets, ears tuned for the softest shuffling, the lake-flat plain of my longing. A way to fathom open spaces, the echolocation of everyday wanderings when what presses in on every side is a tangible absence, a soft cheek brushing against mine, a waft of plum: that perfume I used to love. The shawl I wear, smoke- light yet warm. Today, it’s too warm, but I bunch the soft fabric at my throat loosely with one fist. A puddle of…

Ode to September If April is the cruelest month, Septemberis its still good enough looking brother,drunk and whittling a stick on a porch. Drunk on red wine, September. What are the little gold leaves fallingon the lawn? September couldn’t say. September wants not to think too much,to whittle until it’s afternoon again. There’s a voice on a speaker half a mile away,now trumpets, drums, a trombone,a game being played it hears little of. September is telling a story while it diminishesthe stick to a point, tosses it in a bush. September thinks it can hide from time,hanging out inside it. If September caresabout anything, it cares about September. Spilled into,…