Poetry

There is nothing for her to hold and everybody knows it. Nothing for her to hold, eight times over. Pieces of her babies, girly, ghostly, float toward her nightly tossing brain. Mom has a gene for dropping dead, but she won’t use it on her misery. God of Anthony, god of the thin good men…

You should have seen the sea in those days, wind smoke and weeping flares washing ashore from the barrios, all those hesitant evacuees, as tarpaulin stretched along Beaufort’s Dyke and our drift nets sailed through the Hebrides. Shuffling in pipe smoke, scribbling a plume of grave longing on the bones of a wax-bright dusk, I…

Wind takes your hair like a hooligan owl and leaves a deep pocket of dusk in your scalp. Love without pride is a love with no end. You keep calling me in to fill up your head, but the mutinous dust of the dead yellow field says better not listen to a thing with a…

It seems farfetched, I know, but when we tethered toy horses in the lea of the patio the moon wept like a candle, and the dawn when it came crept along the dusty panhandle. Best not to worry the truth like that yarn about Turner strapped to the mast of the little ice age, better…

In the nick of school busses. Office slacks. The rest of the game: Welcome Home, Girl. Critical objects to fragment and pony, sure—but I got this softshoe doublestep down. Books all memorized. You rolled some tardy & went fish-eyed in the cut: a tired, trifling air kiss bye-bye. But that’s the providence of maybe. The…

In Leeson Street? we find ourselves in a Georgian chapel of ease,? an elite mass rock, in an Irish lexicon,? in a credo unravelling, in ambivalent government attire, we stand, genuflect, stand again and disperse,? miming handshakes and the bluster of concern. What stains our hands— March as before whipped in a narrow light— as…

As Written by Mikhail Bulgakov Little cartographer, little sparrow, little bathtub sitting upon clawed feet, little aquarium cracked and housing a dead crow, little anvil, little hones holding large sickles, little swan of the question mark neck choking on flakes of black snow, little water truck nose-down in a gully with a rusty tongue, a…

I Family is and is not a velveteen pillow theater a dinner hour mistake with candied yams on the side a box at the bottom of flightless penguins hitchhiking through town footprints in a cemetery II Symmetry two moon pies per gypsy greedy art and dirigible need rushes and reeds tracing paper on papyrus the…

If there is such a thing anymore? as a humble servant in the vineyard this is he, a man from the coast home on his lunch break working the stooped enclosure below me as I read and revel in the feral words of murder on what passes for a roof garden with a view of…