In the increasingly convincing darkness The words become palpable, like a fruit That is too beautiful to eat.

A yak is a prehistoric cabbage; of that, we can be sure.

The winter does what it can for its children.

Things can harden meaningfully in the moment of indecision

The first year was like icing. Then the cake started to show through.

Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen.

To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets.