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Every once in a while, it’s true: I get sick of dying. Iambic ghosts choiring                                        their lovely, churchless songs, All the lines of the poem leaning toward terminus Like rows of low windbent weeds—    …

They mouthed the surface of the creek for nymphs tasting their temporary life or striders sculling the tension that was neither water nor air but border, merely. The way a dream nibbles at awareness, the sunnies dared the surface. From the footbridge I saw them school in the little depth below the watercolor that was…

I see the lion as the lion sees the girl he slowly devours in a silent film— a flash of sun-torn flesh— before the vision fades. How foolish she was to wander the woods alone, forgetting the warnings, the memory she had of herself before the woods became a thought from which the lion leapt,…

Limited, the body’s vocabulary               cannot always say        what it feels, what it wants, what             it is.                     Unendurable,                                          this voicescrape, a song bird                              lashed to my throat—                                                                Where can I escape                                                      from thy spirit?                                            Where can I flee from…

Don’t get up, don’t give me that talk about I’m sorry and Look at the woods how beautiful the woods are when the snow flits through those holes I punched in the treetops, said God.                 God said, I don’t care if your knees get muddy, I don’t care if your dinner burns,                        …

To the shadow house where the bees look like birds, and an ant’s death on the pavement hums the world beneath. Stamp on the silvery air. Ghosts buck back against their own pressure. What prods at the jaw there? A convergence of birds in a dripping glade? A string of gulls dragging in a hex?…

not a woman’s eye not a man’s eye not the metal that hit what the eye caught Pain thinks of something without description & blank & luminous nothing of blue or gray or blue gray & the land & the sea without description not a shoe not a shirt not a string wound inside a…

What light in the sky to leave, what flags through town, their white Q’s. How I was   as I had been has nothing against captains, with distance between an awkward door   & fence, in what appear to be the stars in a month in this string of deadly months.   My movement upends,…

To finally locate you after all these years and then— it’s in a dream!: you’re near the end in a hospital in a small New England city, what monstrous snake of a road led you here, where you sit on the bed making calls as you did, to the rich and famous, trying to raise…