Poetry

  • Specimen Box

    on the wall by the fireplace we can fill it      with stones, flowers, toenails, pebbles of shit     or scat      or something else Anglo-Saxon   and indispensable. No books on Texas      birds, no botany, the rock is called a batholith, stands 1,825 feet, a large, solid granite dome          where white men fled captivity,…

  • Winter

    Furious snow cardinals & diode array. Methuselah walks by me in coats. Vast brackets of light. Those sugar packets on the road:                                               a branch encased in ice would almost seem to indicate them. The first bomb opens itself in space. By red by half-silvered light—“to home.” How that a life were but a place?…

  • Childless

    Bones like a bird’s you quicken your hands, flit and mock,   take stock of who’s watching— every move a melodrama, a poised   snap, a shot that shapes you as the lead of a film no one   can stop. Your fingers play invisible keyboards,   your toes point, turn out in stance, your…

  • We Want A Farm

    We would like to grow herbs, cooking herbs and chamomile and lavender, and keep birds, farm fish, collect dogs and cats and horses. There isn’t enough room in the apartment. We need a plant to cover the litter boxes in the bathroom. There’s an unfinished birdcage you’ve built in the bedroom and now you’ve started…

  • Oak, November

    for Grace There’s an oak leaf, one     caught in the latch on the door lodged like a letter in a letter box. It knocks slowly, eight-prongs     the wind tips it back, head leaning away     stem like a tail, wind knocking softly      turning over the life of a tough brown leaf. Stronger than a grasping hand,…

  • Three Abominations

    It must be just bad translating, like Robot Chicken and Fly Head; but thoughts of the three— Walnut tumors? Moo shu pus? Fire-bombed baby with broccoli?—make my hunger high- tail it like Iron Man in a thunderstorm. The Pair of Love Shrimp moan syphilitically. Seafood Commissioner takes bribes to okay rancid clams. The Sauteed Happy…

  • Some Pacific Vapor

    So you think you can bear me, now, do you? Carry my limp body through centuries Of sand (soft, made from ground shells, or souls As some have claimed), likewise, across that blue That is the paradise-never you deem We shall inhabit, in which I don cream And no clothes, or just a muslin dream-come-true…

  • Winter Trees

    I am like the trees not ruined exactly but shorn of ornament and destitute of motivation it is possible to find both beauty and truth in their pure forms and I would like to do so in myself if time could be persuaded to hold off its heartless green