In that wind, I pulled my blanket in to me,
the edges of it beat against my legs.
Above, clouds germinated over
grey-grass hills, hiding the land line.
The finality of a grave is hard to see.
Dirt piled on wood and bones.
I wished to see a sapling, budding blue,
or even a prairie fire in all that space.

I.
He tears up my letters. He sends back no word.
But Burns has been staggering. His shinbones must pain him,
Decade on decade longshanking about –
Or so says my shadow, a greedy young gnome
Who follows my Burns for a generous sum –
With a whistle to signal the butcher and wagon.
What a sight they must be as they slouch
Down the High Street, the giant unnerved
By the unblinking dwarf.
II.
Men of Burns’ size are like pachyderms,
Like mastiffs or baluchitheria.
It takes so much effort, such muscular pumping,
For the heart to succor all those organs.
And bathe the …

Mom sits with Mark at a lacquered mahogany table in the parlor, scanning through frayed puzzle pieces, her eyebrows furrowing into an upside-down V. In front of them, the box is propped open and they take turns looking up and down, first at an image of a calico cat lounging among dahlias and marigolds and then down at the scrambled puzzle pieces, a mash of similar colors that sits on the table like a small undulating reflecting pool. Some of the pieces litter the carpet near Mom, but …