In the end, the end seems probable, but before come many votes and murders. The common redstart votes for its own splendor among the other splendid things; the virgin murders her own abashed vocabulary, pretending to a toughness she does not as yet possess. Possess she will, in time, a rude demeanor…
i. There are hands around a small neck. Climb in closer. Without line these your limbs, gills, wrist a small cut on a mid-season day. Now the squirrel arabesques limb to limb dropping not falling. ii. Gated all awake. Eaten all your conflagrated hate. Pulled down toward. Pull down toward. This your cord….
What’s it like now to be shot in the foot by yourself, when you were aiming elsewhere and didn’t want any kind of trouble? How else could you frustrate yourself more, what with your foot oozing blood, and the gun smoke clouding the air so you can’t think, and that bird you wanted…
This is the small hill Landscape of the middle country I love and I am on it stumbling down in high heels This is the last evening No light in the squandered wood The gentleman farmer still awake His back to my back Verdant in blackness is a twinkling Is a wet streamlike thing…
The love rose in my heart has wilted The love bug The news on the transistor A nice man with a ponytail says It’s understandable If you wanted to leave here for there They were burying the evidence Structurally Boys in prison cells And outside the kids play stretcher One of them was dying Between…
By ten o’clock she’s cleaned the house and can measure bourbon into her cup. Who will save her now? No answer. The fetus flips and scoots inside her belly, then sleeps as quiet as the lamb that lies down with the wolf, its sovereign other. Improbably in that tiny Brooklyn apartment, Nina’s baby pulls cells…
Despite the moonlessness a glow still lives in the lighter stones, yonder a great seam of quartz beams stars back at the stars. The nightwalking habit he cannot shake, and shunning headlamp or flashlight he goes slow. He knows the way through the woods well, sometimes waits a spell, took a hard fall once it…
One night you lay half in the dark Holding a framed picture And studied your granddaughters’ faces By the light of the reading lamp Whispering their names to yourself As you tapped each face with your finger And kept your focus steady As the beam’s illumination Worried about the shadow That would cross their faces…
jolie might not be one of your color colony dates but I know just what you, calm to coordination, might say. these luminous treasures before me might not be at brink of what’s poisonous but pollen down the river like women we lost passes like a morning cooking a mother long-lived and radiant where…
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