He’s on top of her, barely moving, at the swimming hole I’ve called mine for years. Here, to be anything but naked is nearly sacrilegious. In the quick red canyon water sears the dusty plain. My daughter plays, oblivious to them, delicious in her two-year skin, but I can’t not look (and must if I’m…
The day threatens its hold over me, the storm closes in on the lake though I’ve heard it before, we’ve begun with the moon. Plainly stated with my silver pen: I wait for the day to fill me, to make its choice. I spin myself smaller; listen, I will not tell everything. With eating comes…
One unexceptional bright afternoon in August, coming from the rose garden secreted behind the rue Villehardouin, I thought, fleet, furtive, If I lived alone I could stay here and pushed the thought away as firmly and unlikely as Might rain later because I wanted just to choose and I had chosen, more than cobblestones…
You believe, if you cast wide enough your net of want and will, something meaningful will respond. Perhaps we are the response— each a cresting echo hesitating, vibrant with the moment before rippling back. But you’re steadfast as Odysseus strapped to the mast, as you were in ’81 when Reagan ordered you back to work….
Your papillae momentus is shot, these pills may help but you’ll probably lose your right arm. My right arm! How will I live? So the client thrashes out of the office like a man learning to swim by drowning but after a couple weeks, he can almost float, button his own coat. So he goes…
To the loft and to them I came to be the opiate, not the administered, fiending to become the body without self, reversible as a jacket, Able Was I Ere I Saw Elba, as the trompe l’oeil in Psych remaining two faces human, the Queen and her Consort, seen from another…
The horse, Susan said, because it is the blankest of slates, or because our success—our genes’ successes—are linked, has been written on extensively by our needs. Dumb giants pawing the ground, father, mother, escape, sexuality glistening and rippling, forelock and fetlock, footloose and fearless, or the pleasures of the fearful—fleeing the sudden gesture, careening through…
A wing’s a bridge made of light and lightness. Such an unattaching, then then, such a humming garden. What is finished is brutal. Pink swallow, brown wings and tail acock on a porcelain vase, can be diving so, only if whole is the greenest color. Return, world. Be a little whether….
The goddess of the hunt is not herself. She is tired having waited, having sniffed around surgically. All her arrows jiggle with nothingness, so she turns herself inside out: her tongue is a tail, her throat a torso, her stomach bundled with eyes and claws. She feels, on her cheek, a new weather. Angels drift…
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