The furrows deepen on your forehead as you watch the TV story of Chief Joseph. Later, as your amber eyes—two villages, fade into the darkness, I deliver a knockout without mercy, “Does marrying me make you feel good?” Some have been known to bob up with “Somewhere in my bloodline is a Cherokee.” Your sad…
Late night in early winter. The last hour of the long drive home. I tend to the thermostat, keeping the car warm enough for my sleeping family, but not so warm that my focus turns dull. Beyond the chilled glass to my left, green dashboard lights angle up toward the stars. Distance defines our relations….
Is it a vanishing point or is it Brooklyn into which the cables run Brooklyn over which these two these shadowy walkers come against the shaded rails against the future in the arcades in the bridge the parallels above them in midair § Under a clatter of fire…
what about their celibacy? widow playing maid for an in-law and if high-born inheriting three thousand not more shaving her head wearing only white I do not know this law lying on my lord’s burning branches I do not mind getting old my forehead creases though my mouth still turns up I love trying on…
If this world were mine, the stereo starts, but can’t begin to finish the phrase. I might survive it, someone could add, but that someone’s not here. She’s crowned with laurel leaves, the place where laurel leaves would be if there were leaves, she’s not medieval Florence, not Blanche of Castile. Late March keeps marching…
The time Anne left her husband, she went to France. She spent the first few days in Paris at an inexpensive hotel in the sixth arrondissement on rue Jacob. Her room was small and sparsely furnished; the bathroom, too, was small, the shower produced a tepid trickle. Instead of looking out onto the busy street,…
Regard a tree. Who would have better seized light’s longing? Longing a labor is first, is first. First the cold path of it. (Bring water.) Egregious is a few steps over wet stones hai ailala or you might miss it Shirred up, wet against the grain silica might call out …
I would’ve called him Ice Cream, or Monopoly, or Grand Slam: something I especially liked. He’d have played catch with me when no one else was home. He might have come from planet Fev, where God taught him kung fu. He might have traded crescent kicks with Christ. Or been a girl. Maybe on Fev,…
Your John Wayne days and ways are on the wane. Who needs another gangster, when this world is jammed with gangsters, brilliant, slick, insane? You whose thing is you’ve been boyed and girled and worked and played, then turned and stretched and squashed. What’s with it with you anyway? Ideas you spew about your innocence…
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