Gettysburg Review - Detail

What tends toward orbit and return, comets and melodies, robins and trash trucks restore us. What would be an arrow, a dove to pierce our hearts restore us. Restore us minutes clustered like nursing baby bats and minutes that are shards of glass. Mountains that are vapor, mice living in cathedrals, and the heft and lightness of snow restore us. One hope inside dread, “Oh what the hell” inside “I can’t” like a pearl inside a cake of soap, love in lust in loss, and the tub filled with dirt in the backyard restore us. Sunflowers, let me wait, let me please see the bridge again from my smacked-up desk on Euclid, jog by the Black Angel without begging, dream without thrashing. Let us be quick and accurate with the knife and everything that dashes restore us, salmon, shadows buzzing in the wind, wren trapped in the atrium, and all that stills at last, my friend’s cat, a pile of leaves after much practice, and ash beneath the grate, last ember winked shut restore us. And the one who come

What tends toward orbit and return, comets and melodies, robins and trash trucks restore us. What would be an arrow, a dove to pierce our hearts restore us. Restore us minutes clustered like nursing baby bats and minutes that are shards of glass. Mountains that are vapor, mice living in cathedrals, and the heft and lightness of snow restore us. One hope inside dread, “Oh what the hell” inside “I can’t” like a pearl inside a cake of soap, love in lust in loss, and the tub filled with dirt in the backyard restore us. Sunflowers, let me wait, let me please see the bridge again from my smacked-up