Five poems for The Paris Review

1.

Texture of an imitation of an imitation of her hairstyle. Here

the heart agrees

with my patter.

2.

The mud the children track through sunroom

more imagination

than memory. If composing poems are a kind

of translation. If editing is a kind

of translation. If hiring some kid

to cut our lawn is a kind

of translation. Everything, perhaps, is translation.

3.

This darkness, mere light. The practice

of ancient, and everyday. Letter carrier tethers, our

boundary of lawn. Twitter ethics: you can never step twice

into that same thread. Topography

of a thousand swoons.

4.

Hardtack, dusk. I drink

like a glass of wine. Because time is a river and the breeze

is a river and the

dandelions are a river. Collect in their small hands, two

modest piles pool

on concrete steps. For now, spring flows

in their direction of laughter,

attention. Bottleneck, stars. Our street today

is toothless, present. An implausible word.

5.

Unfastened, listen. They break for the house.