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After gimlets and cosmopolitans, we’re on to sex and its catastrophes, Susan telling about the time she ordered a paycheck’s worth of Italian lingerie. She dressed slowly, she says, feeling only a little ridiculous as she slid one gartered leg across the coffee table. Looking up, her husband asked if she could stop blocking the…
A well-made thought, a coin. It must have been the vista we were after since nobody’s in it. But where was it? It was a clear day, though, look. We must have loved the way it opened out, suggesting some idea, maybe lunch, we thought it led to, without which our life might have been…
Snow falls the tenants gather at the corner Gone are their small poor lives we envy in The lyrical vein the snow falls as thick As soap over the monuments over The benches and the scratched branches the pile Of tires in the median strip the snow Falls like excess paperwork on the street- Lamps…
push up the wick, when the dark comes early. That’s marrow dark. Waiting-for-the-savior dark. Keep spare lamps for when cocoons turn mute: their prophecy spilled scale & tattered wing. For when no wasp will overwinter & no beetle. When that iridescence litters fields lace tight your goods. Somewhere in the barn a cache: broken bottle,…
black-eyed susans sound abused, as if the night beats flowers up and needs help loving as people love who sign letters xoxoxoxo, which reminds me of football coaches showing massive men how to destroy massiver men on a chalkboard at halftime. if you are a flute thrown out a window on the way to montgomery,…
He goes out the door as someone I don’t know. Not the boy-man I was at 17 but somewhat lagging behind, somewhat further ahead, dressed carefully for others in red and black, his body a deliberate mystery. No idea what he knows, what he says, what he does. I’m not supposed to know, only the…
Mistgreen maple leaves just twenty feet from my looking, my remembering an equally soft morning in Monterosso, woman with left hand in sea, right hand cupping a baby’s head to breast, how feminine it seems, the support, this mist rounding sharpness from bird chatter, this wombing of fence, of farm, of distance inviting me to…
He couldn’t wait to finish a film before he started the next, forty-three total plus the nine-hundred-thirty-minute tv series; refused to commit to any one lover, man or woman; fucked his actors in Munich hotels and Morocco châteaus; left a trail of broken hearts, one ex-wife, four wrecked Lamborghinis, two suicides; popped pills to stay…
There’s something casual about maple leaves. They’re almost mittens, in the first place. They refuse to stand for the national anthem. And when it rains, as it rained last night, a rain I listened to on the floor, a rain as delicate as a shoplifter, they’re moved by each raindrop and resist each raindrop, creating…
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