If what etches-- oh, I'm sorry.
I'm just going to dive in.
The book is made out of three long sequences of sonnets.
This last sequence is called "No Address."
And it does have an epigraph from Emily Dickinson,
reportless subjects to the quick, continual addressed.
And I'll jump a few poems into it.
If what etches into your eyes leaves
a small canyon in its trough, is there the chattering speech?
I don't think it's enough to say images, seeing the still Aleppo
pine needles.
A tarp billowing at the lower winds are a weather.
How long could you look in the foreground?
A wet child appears who isn't you.
The two bits of peeling white light she tossed into us
feel like a skein.
Await, water falling down your back
in the bath, a salted, silver-edge negative pressing
you to the steady light impulse neither of us will absorb.
Winking in that light, all the while by its known waves,
the state's cargo planes keep from folding into our street.
Having lost a few people running in superfluity,
the sky here behaves itself over a bamboo
that grows wild or bedded with river stones
hauled, come to rest their smoothing ends,
but not the infinitive daughter, gone to running away with water
as one of her rhymes.
We live in the flight path of Davis-Monthan,
so the planes come up a lot.