My Daddy Was an Appalachian Folksong
a harmonica-breathing picker of tunes,
wayfaring stranger, foot-stomping pilgrim
of sorrow unseen in honeysuckle and wildwood
flowers high on a mountain his daddy
Audio
When the Hundred-Year Flood Hits Home
There is a gapping
in the chest when the water
outside pours indoors.
A continental
shift shuts down the panic that
will only drown me.
Letter to Bob Boynton, Music Prodigy
Dear Bob: I find myself hearkening back
sometimes to those old days when you and I
were playing in garage bands, way way back
in high school. You were the drummer and I
was the guitarist.
In the Arboretum
I tune my guitar
to the bird who sings in almost E,
the one with almost perfect pitch
while counting 1 & 2, 3, 1 & 2, 3.
After Her Affair
Here’s what he does to reclaim the ravine:
He puts on leather gloves and strips
the bank of brambles. This takes weeks.
He burns the debris in a pile late one night
while sparks shoot out like stars into the dark.
Shaking Hands with the Dead
They took a piece of cadaver
and put it in my wrist,
dead ligament better than
no ligament at all.