So it's a great pleasure now to read my most recent work
to you, which as you heard, is the book length sequence
Thunderbird.
Some of the words, poems, each end
with a line that then becomes the title to the next poem.
So I'll just start from the beginning and read down.
So you'll see how that scrolls through.
And then I'll just pick some randomly.
So Thunderbird opens on the poem "Ecstasy."
As the ancients detail it, ecstasy passes over us
in a mist of particles.
It lives bare, dies unburied.
I finally understand it is raining.
It is beautiful.
A couple of hawks in a tree and not the tree entire.
"The Tree Entire."
My head lies crushed sideways in a pillow of a morning.
I hear you both faintly deciding whose fields
to empty, to clear cut first growth,
knowing such an odious decision is prompted by a greater
emergency, a fire on your watch where officially
a firewall is called for.
I accept your predicament.
Your view obstructed from your dark red couch
on a nearby planet.
As two shining stones, you think the friction between you
is blazing hot, and not just death's
genitals that are a part of nature.