All that is uncared for.

Left alone in the stillness

in that pure silence married

to the stillness of nature.

A door off its hinges,

shade and shadows in an empty room.

Leaks for light. Raw where

the tin roof rusted through.

The rustle of weeds in their

different kinds of air in the mornings,

year after year.

A pecan tree, and the house

made out of mud bricks. Accurate

and unexpected beauty, rattling

and singing. If not to the sun,

then to nothing and to no one.

–by Linda Gregg

Green Shade

With my head on his spotted back and his head on the grass—a little bored with the quiet motion of life and a cluster of mosquitoes making hot black dunes in the air—we slept with the smell of his fur engulfing us. It was as if my dominant functions were gazing and dreaming in a field of semiwild deer. It was as if I could dream what I wanted, and what I wanted was to long for nothing— no facts, no reasons—never to say again, “I want to be like him,” and to lie instead in the hollow deep grass—without esteem or riches— gazing into the big, lacquer black eyes of a deer.

— by Henri Cole [Nara Deer Park]

Let Me Be Held When The Longing Comes

Let me be held when the longing comes

by you

yours the arms, yours the tenderabstract willow


Tumble down into the quiet dark

of this embrace

night is come again.

Stay a little longer,

for no other reason than it is

good not to be alone always

let there be a song of remembering and not knowing

what is there except

a warmth and a blossom

of a feeling, sweetly,

gladly, home.