Poetry

In this house that is not mine I hear a home knocking at a door left unlocked for years only the days knew to come and go as they please. At the top of some ridge it has found me with my walls building solitude out of trees. At the nadir of some work it…

Ulysses S. Grant was a handsome man—wow—I love how The men in those old uniforms cocked their hips the clothes Looked like they got dirty and Ulysses is leaning His hip to the right, kind of messy Kind of like those sexy cowboys with a hand on a rifle And a hip cocked in the…

There’s a preponderance of dog shit in Paris but no one says so, attracted to its other, finer qualities. If people were stepping in that much crap in Detroit you’d never hear the end of it. Motown my ass, they’d say, without so much as a backward glance at the Miracles, the Temptations. They might…

It’s only a pile of sticks in the woods. My sisters go to bed after me. It’s only a pile of sticks arranged counterclockwise, like a funnel. My sisters don’t know I’m really clear-headed when my mother stands outside the window. My teacher is scared of someone standing where she can’t see, someone really there,…

Not one stone is left on another, and not one day Is left to rest on another, either, But bad news kicks it underfoot and tramples it. At each day’s end, an American with aging vision Bends closer to a soup can picked off a canned goods shelf To spot the betrayal lurking in its…

When the seaweed’s bladders swoon and the tide batters and tears at them, sending the bladder wrack to toss with the seal’s gross afterbirth, I say, Bladder wrack, if the sea cares and is good, why should the sea slap you to rocks, leave you in thirst, come to slap again, forty days, forty thousand…

May replace passport photos. Often the subject is at rest, Isolated from a group, or otherwise Imagined as an individual More than the sum of a series of quirks (“Reality effects”) The poems generally are forced To jettison run-of-the-mill data The ideal such description Will give you a sense Of how someone’s eyes flash When…

Early in his narrative Flaubert constructs a magnificent ball at La Vaubyessard, the estate of the Marquis d’Andervilliers and in that chapter I direct my family to the moment just after the quadrille and before the cotillion when the air in the ballroom grows so thick and heavy the Marquis orders a servant to climb…

If never was the question. Even then. That when feels closer now might embarrass me before this window, more mirror than I would like at this hour, bathos of years ghosting face, throat, my impatient turning off of the lamp. Now I’m small again, and the world outside mysterious, perfumed, & large. Were I not…