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With quiet mind I wonder at the art / that makes, from quiet, words that we can say.

Hiking through shifting landscapes near Moab with her family, a daughter navigates the reality of her father’s dementia.

And he had spoken my name, said I want to go with you— / it was then I remembered I was using his old flannel jacket // for a pillow on my unmade bed, lofted as it was / in a high red cedar. . . .

That’s alive, that’s alive, / that’s alive, the neighbor calls // to his son, following the creek bed.

The husband’s hand caught briefly on the thick baubles dangling from Becca’s lobe. How many fires did those earrings pass through only to be lost in Paradise?

Only when you are a robber baron / who busts unions, makes millions. . .