He’s made me smaller, taken fingernails and spoken words that leave me awake on the outskirts of this town where plum trees don’t give and dogs, chained to their houses with rope, are shot through with silver. His sisters battered down the door with a hatchet and a telescope they bought at a yard sale….
Some things are damned to erupt like wildfire, windblown, like wild lupine, like wings, one after another leaving the stone-hole in the greenhouse glass. Peak bloom, a brood of blue before firebrand. And, though it is late in the season, the bathers, also, obey. One after another, they breathe in and butterfly the surface: mimic…
what is this daisy doing to the ground it is goring what am I doing to this daisy I am saving this mean black daisy mine into dye or stippling crippling the country its great love landing in a cloud of sorts of course a malodor clot going strangle the singers who will not sing…
You’re not still casting the insides of things, are you? —Question asked of Rachel Whiteread in response to her sculpture “Embankment” To see a thing whitely with edge pour concrete, plaster, polyethylene. Yes, a cast water bottle. Yes, a staircase and a chair. Yes, the space underneath the bed where I…
Thunder rode glories out towns thin things Had we perceptual capacities enough & & lime Had lived here sixteen ten times atomica ten times pieces ten times the situation ten glories ten slender life-giving stories Story time tuned to a circular crucifix score Fixed score scores more
Lie down long beside your confirmation number And be my garden The orders of magnitude will mount And thunder past us This is the part When you put everything away Where no one can tell The difference between the wind And a human being The haze has migrated to the other eye…
Eleven years ago I wrote a poem about looking for feminine protection in El Corte Inglés in Madrid. It seems I was always starting my period in cities I didn’t know well. The first time I went to Miami, for the book fair, I felt a cramp, then a squirt, right as I was about…
Men bleed without insight in prison? A hand on neck starts a fight in prison. He held the night’s air in his fist and screamed, then sent word by scribbled kite in prison. Steve’s eyes broke open to the bluest black, then he sported homemade tights in prison. Marquette splintered, deranged pigeon insane. He learned…
I imagine he sank like copper, a bright flutter, but I wasn’t there when they pulled him out. I only know the splintered dock where they laid his featherweight, and the way Keith’s hands shook hours later, still cool from cradling him beneath the dark bulk of the Palisades. Now, autumn falls around us in…
No products in the cart.