My father walks through the scrub, a shortcut, to get to Walmart where he meets up with his friends for coffee on Friday afternoons.

At the dissertation defense, the psychology grad student is saying that oxytocin is essential to feelings of social affiliation . . .

Or the word for immanence, which I am told is called looking at trees I know because the kid secretly circles in her book

This place is very serious.  A lock like that is symbol of seriousness, don’t you think? Grown up serious.

Yesterday, I did not open the dragon boat race . . .

I have a dream in which I am staring at the dead branches . . .

When I fall asleep rain is hitting the roof, steady as in childhood . . .

Arms Long and Small — Cockspur, rosehip, did you nibble my ilium? Didn’t you purr? But I don’t remember too much about you.

  The Shamrocks   Little green trinities—at home between sky and sod, a canny family resemblance, a truly inside job—a common life far beyond broad oceans of guilt and sad regret—not these worthless plastic hats and opaque glasses, not these banners from forgotten holidays spent over Hell’s Ditch and the moon—not the smoking remnants of a blasted Friday from dark in 1972—not me, not you, not at all this weight of black hilarity behind us—only a lilt of dawn light over the rise, and a breeze that moves with or without purpose, and that sweeps the quiet field of the many and the one.