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If what etches-- oh, I'm sorry.

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I'm just going to dive in.

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The book is made out of three
long sequences of sonnets.

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This last sequence is
called "No Address."

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And it does have an epigraph
from Emily Dickinson,

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reportless subjects to the
quick, continual addressed.

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And I'll jump a
few poems into it.

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If what etches into
your eyes leaves

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a small canyon in its trough,
is there the chattering speech?

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I don't think it's enough to say
images, seeing the still Aleppo

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pine needles.

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A tarp billowing at the
lower winds are a weather.

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How long could you
look in the foreground?

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A wet child appears
who isn't you.

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The two bits of peeling white
light she tossed into us

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feel like a skein.

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Await, water falling
down your back

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in the bath, a salted,
silver-edge negative pressing

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you to the steady light impulse
neither of us will absorb.

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Winking in that light, all
the while by its known waves,

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the state's cargo planes keep
from folding into our street.

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Having lost a few people
running in superfluity,

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the sky here behaves
itself over a bamboo

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that grows wild or
bedded with river stones

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hauled, come to rest
their smoothing ends,

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but not the infinitive daughter,
gone to running away with water

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as one of her rhymes.

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We live in the flight
path of Davis-Monthan,

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so the planes come up a lot.