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They walk past you
weeping
for the leaves that burnt
& fell, the wood exposed
like bone, sculpture
that suddenly emerges
from white haze.
You old fortune-teller,
you could have told them
in their vibrant grief

From morning’ s mouth
the bones emerge,
a prayer is whispered
over rounded horns;
the prairie is beyond
the quivering hump
and holy smoke sparkles
released in the breath.
Braided sweetgrass,
be about their hooves;
although the grip of hunger
lies heavy on the land,
let endless native grasses grow
among the yellow stones
and between the stars.
Even if only one man had
begun to sing, actually
it was thousands, She who came
to Wisconsin farmers
and transformed their lives,

around the house stood an
orchard of plum, apple and pear
a blackwalnut tree, one white pine,
groves of white oak and willow clumps
the home of Jessie was largely redwood

blood, flesh and bone sprouted
inside her womb of redwood
for five generations
the trees now stand unpruned and wild

after relocating so many years before the War
the seeds of Jessie have returned

1

song gives birth to
the song and dance
as the dance steps
the story speaks

2

the icy mountain water
that pierces the deep thirst
drums my fire
drums my medicine pouch

3

deep within my blood
a feather in the sky
foam on clear water
Tayko-mol!

4

free as the bear
and tall as redwoods
throb my blood roots
when spirits ride high

5

a valley ripe with acorns
and yellow poppies everywhere
as i stand here
dreaming of you

6

and hue

to have unheld a scale —

silver dishes little mirrors on their chains —

they go that way, This

and hoist

It’s not like looking into a pool,
to let your intelligence run away with you

Come back quarter size, apricot moon

A changeling is a child who
appeared under cover
of the ordinary, in exchange

I wear my heart on my sleeve,
or rather both sleeves, since
it's usually broken.

Sometimes when I join my hands
to pray, the jagged edges
briefly touch,

like a plate that fell and cracked
apart from being asked
to hold too much.

To strip away this incessant chatter,
yes, but what lies underneath it?

Death, of course, or our fear of death.
Which is why we talk so much,

bury our heads in books, turn forests
into pages and pages into mirrors

in which we see ourselves appear
and disappear. When I look up

from the story I've been reading
about the Jews in Nazi Germany

and the silence that closed their
mouths forever, I see a girl outside

the cafe smiling in at her father
who smiles back but cannot hear her.

You would have thought it foolish to speak to the dead,

but I have lived two decades longer now than you

and all this time I have carried you in my head

so I think I have the right to question what you said,

dear teacher. My religious upbringing’s residue,

you would have thought it foolish. To speak to the dead,

however, is sometimes necessary, especially haunted

by all the things I know you hoped I’d do

with all this time that I have carried you in my head.

In a dream last night I followed where you led

Be precise
authority is magic.
When you think you've got it straight
wax wane declination
feel the movement under your hand
one summer morning
as you observe it set
then rise that night.
Always use a well-sharpened pencil
followed by a good eraser.
Watch the white emerge.

Someone said
that working through difficult equations
was like walking
in a pure and beautiful landscape –
the numbers glowing
like works of art.
And in the same crowded room
a woman I thought I didn’t like
was singing to herself –
talking and listening