(for Ed Dorn)

Some things I don't confess

to know. How a dead man

gets up out of bed, the Blue Bonnets

of Texas all over his gown, how stark

the room he wakes from, and summons you

to talk. I forgot what he said.

He did look dead, though later

said he was just resting. The rest

was trees, some kind of Ash; I aspire

to know them, what landscape was this,

like a neutron explosion--nothing left but the leaves,

nothing standing, no stone that wasn't formed

by the sea. No corners. Smashed.

---

Originally published in Square One (Creative Writing Program, University of Colorado)