in the drawer
for knives
I can not see.
I could’ve been
wiser about that.
But here I am.
Careful.
Wanting to caress
a hand grenade,
something from
the Gospel that dispels
simultaneously:
all the threats and bullshit,
executive orders,
and delusions.
gnaws the manzanita root
makes a smoldering tunnel
through the soil recently
baked like a scone.
Grows fiery wings
and rides the wind,
glides gently down
My 4 a.m. head was crammed
with a dancing flame and fishes
that swam from cloud to cloud.
and a long ago naked plunge
in the pool of a New Mexico flash flood
fed by a rust-colored cataract.
Our bodies were speckled
and dusted with orange
when it dried on our skin.
And once again, for what
must be the ten-thousandth time,
that warm day one spring
when walking out a ranch road
on the green flank of the mountain
the Spanish named for the devil,
I saw a huge valley oak covered
with fresh sprouting leaves
trembling in the breeze.
Except there was no breeze
and the leaves were singing.
It was all finches, finches,
an orchestra of goldfinches
on their way north to nest and feast
