Poetry

I had an office, once 
With an incandescent lamp 
I bought at Target

Four-thirty: 
The sky is dark as ash 
The stars, diminished 
By the dim suburban glow 
To pale dots

Walking up at six thirty 
In the morning 
To the sound of my daughter’s voice

The cinnamon tang of ferns 
Clicks of insects like the freewheel of a bicycle 
Treetops afire 
Dying orange light

The walk 
Took me by 
A mottled stack 
Of bricks 
The place we found you 
Lying in a box

Can you make ice cubes 
From vinegar 
I ask

I should not be afraid 
Of wind-blown branches 
Or crashing planes

So shrieks the machine: 
“Treasure! Treasure’s here, just below!” 
A spade plunges into turf

All I need to know is that

The veil is thin 
Between Earth and Sky 
Beneath my back, outstretched