Like steel lace, the poems in Pluck Another Apple, Eve, and Finish It explore inner and outer landscapes with clarity and grace. Here's a sampling:
From “Rising (Tebenkov Bay)”:Through an archway we might glide,
unaware that a distant instrument
marks our arrival,
measures us excitedly but poorly
like frail pins of a seismograph
set into the wings of a ballet stage
to gauge Stravinsky’s genius
by a Firebird’s leap.
From “Healing a man”:We don’t know the limits of possible
so don’t speak to me of odds.
Echoes can spring from soft places
and water can re-climb falls,
and light can escape
from the heaviest pull of oblivion
if some number of stars
in some number of galaxies
consent
all of an instant
to let it through.
The odds of our being
are infinitely small,
yet here we are.
From “Einstein’s daughter”:At fifty, she thought of something
no one had ever heard of
in this world.
Just then, her daughter’s toddler
tugged at her hands, crying.
All she remembered later
was that an idea
as miraculous as a bubble’s skin
had appeared, then vanished—
something remarkable,
something she had wanted
to write down.
From “Burrs”:If we are perfect spheres of soul
slipping down
through layer after layer
toward some impossible center,
our bodies are burrs,
snags in ragged coats
grabbing passing furs
with ingenious hooks—
barbed fruit,
ultimate friction
determined to get somewhere
and open.
From “Color it sky blue”:You know how it sounds when the words
have the resonance of our blood behind them,
the strength of connections weaving,
and you know the shine they can leave behind,
as if every true “thank you” and “I love you”
were a smattering of gold dust
around a footprint.