We met at a summer dance, / Then she was gone.

Green is gorgeous is too soon gone, / she thought. Rockets fell toward new year’s dawn.

In the acre’s shady corner / of unremembered names

again, i was all alone / and awake / (just lying there) / when the first wave came with a strong wind

along centre street in midtown ashland / where william’s woods’ dark seams form a forum ...

I was afraid / of the man next door ...

Sister Three was on the phone, / and she was outraged.

Seven hundred years ago, / Dante died in exile in Ravenna / and was buried there.

Months away, but the milestone looms.