Pattiann Rogers

“Mothers,fathers,our kind,tell me again that death doesn't matter.Tell me it's just a limitation of vision ,a fold of landscape,a deep flax-and-poppy-filled gully hidden on the hill, pleat in our perception a somersault of existence,natural,even beneficent even a gift,the only key to the red-lacquered door at the end of the hall,"water within water," those old stories.”

“Don't you knowThis is precisely what I seek, mad myselfTo envelope every last drupe and pearl shaped ovule,Every nip and cry and needle-fine boring, every drooping,Spore-rich tassle of oak flower, all the whistling,Wing-beating, heavy-tipped matings of an entire prairieOf grasses, every wafted, moaning seed hookYou can possibly manage to bring to me,That is exactly what I contrive to take you into my armsWith you, again and again.”