Red grit from the trip through Utah:
That peregrine perched on the canyon lip,
eyes like a shark, a hieroglyph
for streamlined speech, tomorrow,
or the week after.

I love the Madonna del Parto,
but think just as often of Piero
climbing the San Sepolcro road
through the redbuds with a quiver
of brushes: the prenotion,
the Motion over Matter.

And that one who would do anything,
go anywhere—they say she had
an indelible daughter.

     These hundred robins
     at daybreak, they make
     a common head.

     If the living
     won’t listen they sing
     for the dead.