Look, above the creek, hummingbirds in the trumpet vine. …
David Bottoms
By the time he’d hit eighty, he was something out of Ovid, …
Twice through my bedroom window …
At the edge of town, …
Lord, what are the sins …
Through the orange glow of taillights, …
When I sat for a moment in the bleachers …
Sometimes my old man’s hand flutters over his knee, flaps …
In the woods at the corner of our yards …
On the rough diamond, …
Under the fire escape, crouched, one knee in cinders, …
We have all seen them circling pastures, …