Sunday, February 12, 2017


Experience is never singular. We live in super-imposed moments, several moments deep (perhaps more than several, perhaps countless). Every moment contains its own memory, and every memory is a parade of ghosts of itself, each ghost newer than the one before.

Generations of ghosts, there in the synapses of our neurons.

I'm moving toward that in my poetry, an exploration of these super-imposed moments. They may (I am discovering) (though I've no doubt known this all along) have occurred days or months or years apart, but they are one.

Winter is like this, as well. Each winter becomes all winters; each storm contains the one before, the one before, the one...

Think of your own moments, how they inform one another. A collage of moments.


the longer he lives

[downriver heron
february's gray and gold]

the more he


her voice

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