Michael McGriff Biography

I was wrong about oblivion then,
summer mornings we walked the logging roads
north of Laverne, the gypo trucks leaving miles of gravel dust
...

Above my cold house at daybreak, you hang
in a nest of thinning stars, navigate
the pitch of the roof like November rain.
Where's the invisible bridge you're building
...

Let me be the architect
in the glass city of your mouth.
The wild clock of your mouth
...

Another Oregon November and I'm barreling down
Old Wagon Road again, the night waters of Isthmus Slough
winding through the dark. I gear down the three-in-the-tree Chevy
as Tonya's leg pushes against me. She says, Think you'll leave this place
...

The moon is fishing for compliments
along the sand bar, and I'm holding
a banquet for our separateness,
...