Letter to a Father

I want to comfort you.
can I comfort you?

I want to fly to you.
can I fly to you?

I want to fix you.
can I fix you?

I want to fill you.
can I fill you?

I want to save you.
can I save you?

I want to save us.
can I save us?

or do we sit here,
you and I,

undone,
until there is

enough room
for everything?

The Only Source of Light

If I had not stepped outside
of the darkened house tonight,
I would have missed the ripple
of Jupiter behind low clouds,
and the musk of burned cedar
collecting in the eaves.  I would not
have noticed the small flame flickering
inside of my own bedroom window,
softening the walls
with an almost unbearable
sweetness.

The Artist Listens to Lila Downs

Her brush tangos
easy on stretched canvas

in rhythmic reds,
sultry oranges

to Acolba Azul.
In the blue bedroom,

Spanish blooms
inside her body,

strikes up
a conversation,

longs for
a word to describe

the glimmer
(flame?)

that is spreading out
from the darkest 

alcove
of the room.

Imprints

There is the sky.
There are imprints
on the sky – grayscale

poles and wires
so full of electricity
and communication,

the geometric buildings
with their mirrored windows
reflecting your place

in the morning arrangement.
A bird-shaped
vacuum of light traces

the raven
as you wander
out of town, unrolling

across the river
on the trellised bridge
and the charcoal memory

of locomotives. Overhead,
steel crosshairs entangle
the gathering clouds

and an impossible slice
of bald eagle carves itself
out of the atmosphere.

There is the lithe contour
of the naked cottonwoods,
then only the wide expanse

of open sky,
or the occasional
flicker of bird

to remind you of
the many imprints
you left behind.