wood smoke
draped in the treetops
All Souls’ Day

late-night foghorns . . .
straightening the cut line
on a pan of brownies

night of no moon —
from the trawler’s lamp
one small pool of light

the nail sinking in —
my father’s hammer
in my hand

ancient cedars
the dog bends her head
and sniffs

cicada chorus —
a circle of freshmen
share a smoke

approaching winter —
I leave the seashell
at the bottom of the purse

night scaffold —
the workman slightly bigger
as a shadow

war news
the underbelly of a moth
pressed to my window