The bride stands at the back

of the church, naked

in a blizzard dress. Up to

now, she’s been good as

the unborn, her soon-husband,

too: all the people will throw

good-luck rice at their heads.

One, an unbroken horse,

the other, an open umbrella.

One, on a bolt, the other, ready

to grant shade. They have yet

to know if the white beach will

grow into a desert. Up to now,

a thick fog, just the sound of

poured water, pails bailing.

Their plans swirl and eddy,

living as they do in an age

where big, permanent moves

are viewed as rash, antiquated.

She stands at the back of the

church, the music for her to

process goes, and the nave is

a found road. Water spills over

red rims. What feels mid-stream

is just the beginning. All the

beautiful blue bygones ahead.

---

Translucent fish,

all the new themes

nibble my heels.

What they remind me

is at a certain point,

nothing’s new.

Nightlife, we must

make a truce, as my

heart still blurs

at the thought of

foamed cups and

revelry. Whir of green

lights, the casual slide

of bodies. Saliva to

slick the pen tip,

how odd I should

miss a time that once

distressed me. But

sense never came

simply, a curse

or blessing. Between

my knees, I hold

the sieve of old

pictures, wilted leaves,

and their wildness

smells of sage.

A kind of kissed-wet

bitterness I’m still

unlearning.

---

Out here in the vast

Atlantic in a dinghy.

Rowing, rowing.

Unsure of supplies.

With a dagger,

I dig open tin cans

like hearts.

In the mornings, fog.

Nights, waves. Ten

feet high. I am

the blue and

the black, day

and night. There is

nothing else. What if

on the horizon,

a gigantic rock

appeared? Surely here,

people who know me.

I picture them slicing

roots for a fire,

covering me with

hides. Here, I will

be good.

Tiny blue berries

like songs to help

me sleep. A substitute

for rowing. And

soon, the view

again of blue

and fog and waves.

The Atlantic gone

nowhere, the Atlantic

inside.

---

The girl’s knees. Tiny blond

hairs there. It’s summer: she wears

shorts or a two-piece. Her eyes

darting, small brown birds trapped

in a bush. When I go down to

the family room, she’s there, watching

grown-up cartoons. She hardly speaks.

I am not hers, married to her mother,

who pulls her hair up in a tail.

We get along, the mother gone

for another twelve-pack. Tiny blond

hairs at the fold of the knee. She

comes inside from running in a

sprinkler for hours, her lips blue.

She’s a little thing. The general

mood, suppressed. I’m running through

beers and feeling like I want to save

and buy a pony. I’m feeling what

matters is it all evens out. I’m in

the family room, heart adrift.

My job slinging mail, slid back

into the recesses. There’s the pink

what-if and the red go-ahead.

One thing’s sure. If not me, if not

soon, then somebody.

---

–after the NYT article “Running on Fumes in North Dakota”

 _______________________

When I first came here, to the North Dakota
snow, I lived in my car, called by a television
talking head to the only place with jobs. I drive
trucks for oil, long roads with snow blowing
off frozen earth mounds. When you drive, you
just think of your hurts over and over, the night
sky a black quilt pulled high, little guilt fire
behind the eyes. In my trailer, I’m two extremes:
a vagrant, a prisoner. For a time, I lived free of
water. The local news uncovers a jogger’s body,
her clothing torn free, and my neighbors are men
without families. When did I last see a winged thing,
a honeybee? Nothing but those great mechanical
birds plunging their beaks deep into the split earth.
I drive from rig to rig and between, the bloodless
towns, devoid even of ghosts. I haven’t spoken to
my folks in years. Just toil and risk beneath a gray
ceiling, and debt following. The snow lasts all year.
Hypnotic, the cars, disembodied circles of light
moving toward, then past me. I dream for each
one escape. Everyone must work in this life, and
I’ve earned every inch of my snowbound sleep,
the endless white sheets into which I disappear.

---