Here’s a poem from 2007. Thanks to generous editors at Willow Springs, who were kind enough to give it a home back in 2010:

IN A GOAT PASTURE JUST OUTSIDE OF CROSS CUT, TEXAS

The time we found those three dead kids,

tucked away in a cluster of oaks.

How, as I held them in my arms—

so white so small so soft—

the wind raking their fur,

their eyelids never opened.

The finality of death

surprises me still,

the way I never notice prickly pear

until I’m in it,

how, even tonight, I find needles

sticking through my shoe.