Poetry

The spring the Methodist church 
lost its steeple—no pointy tip 
but a kind of cupola, octagonal 

Which face to choose?
Start in the left-hand corner—and speak to it
      as if to a flock of birds

Under the streetlamp
cars glistened end
to end clogging the cul
de sac and driveway

I swim in his beard diving deep my breath giving out quickly in spite of all I know to do, all that he has taught me, my Merlin, he has schooled me in the things of the pot—the dragon’s blood and the mistletoe and the black willow—he has...