I You lie in the arms of the snow falling outside the window. You looked out a long time, then lay down. I ask if you are cold. You are. Your body gives off the only light, the bones reflecting the bare bulb in the room of your life whose door is locked. * * *…
Looking at his woman of the moment, He congratulates himself on his good taste. Her breasts, lips, legs are a moving sight, Worthy of this investment — Dinner out. Providing similar sustenance, he offers his own substantial smile, A little work of art, Always a breath-taker. To himself he drinks a toast. Were he to…
When the locks froze I stuffed my hands with rags. My wife’s breasts or small animals work but I don’t use rocks; their edges make me dream fists. Wounds close – look at a chopped tree marry dirt, look at bird’s claws knarl on twigs. I like fingers supple as flames, something to lay on…
The light settles on your face, white crumbs circling your mouth. You sweep it off the lapels and shoulder-straps of the dead you’re dreaming of. You sweep it from the dress you will marry in. You could gather it like dust, add water and make a loaf you’d die from, and having digested your own…
From where they return is not known: mouths of rivers seethe with their fever. Pilate’s finger bowl is waiting to welcome; fruit can be found in anything, even death. Hands are speaking softer than our voices. Your body lies like braille in the dark. There are components that make up a sentence. Call everything a…
What’s hard, sandy, and won’t crush like sweet olives against my lips? I lie on barbed wire but dream of caves plushed with skin. My mind’s lined with vaseline, my body cups like a breast against the sheet. Think of angels. Their marble knees streaked with veins, their thighs locked against the touch that spreads…
Your eyes float like sun grains through their light, pollinating the air — with idiots? If they graze and go, the same wind that brought them, blows them away, the same hand. Returning, they will appear as an orange in the sky, the segments as windows, the focus sharper, more acute. In them, I have…
Frontiers are explored in a mirror; sharks contained in their appetite. The skin occludes all but the pen, harvesting love from any field. The clock is a compass leading to the corridors of sleep. The borders that will be crossed occur as we sit alone in our rooms. An island is waiting with the promise…
The squirrels are frantic in the branches; birds circle; the cat waits near the roots, wanting to strip the bark and grease the trunk. Here’s the news under the ground: the rain’s driving weeds through concrete; farmers are tying razors to worms to fish sprouts out of seeds. You’re eager too. Don’t your fists twitch…
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