along centre street in midtown ashland / where william’s woods’ dark seams form a forum ...

I was afraid / of the man next door ...

Sister Three was on the phone, / and she was outraged.

Seven hundred years ago, / Dante died in exile in Ravenna / and was buried there.

Months away, but the milestone looms.

In his poems, the drama is elemental: / There was no pain. It had gone.

I could not tell you / where these chambers exist...