secrets

in my grandmother's attic there was a jettisoned pile of old tarps, not plastic but leather.  under the tarps was a trunk.  and in the trunk - well, i'll never know.  but my grandmother locked the attic door and folded up the ladder and carried it with great labour (she was bow legged), out across her yard and into her barn to rest inside the last unused stall, bits of hay or dust nudged aloft in the process and biting at the light in the air, each time she retrieved or placed anything from or into the attic.  this is how i know there are secrets.

spirit

 

a place where we aren't

 

the earth's desire

 

 

boys in autumn

 i stood by the window waiting for what i had already seen to happen again.  the wind had picked up several yellow leaves and tumbled them to the east down the street like squat toddlers doing comical cartwheels.  the wind did not come again.  instead three teenage boys came from the east and passed svelte and silently to the west.