Spackling the golden clouds in a fucking frenzy. I wear my hair mad as a rocket scientist that helpless one morning. Ill, doctor says, & she won’t live years. Did you ever run from your own sick heart choking? What the night knows in the myth of its far lightless pit could lay you flat…
Walk with me on the carriage path where we have walked through the park to the cliff where the hawks drift in spiral streams, in clear currents. Sit with me. Read to me. Start at the beginning. Read steadily, we can finish the book, the chapter, the page, the paragraph. I have no choice,…
If I bisect my head what grasslands might I find, what flecks of plaster what walls. What genuflects cracks to these streets, vacant lots. There was a sandal, a child standing in it, & dust. Each sequence a leather strap creasing. Each crossroads with arrowsigns, distances, placenames crossed out. There was a tollbooth…
Not really knowing the difference between herons and cranes, that summer we named the two birds that came to Boehmke’s Cove (which were almost surely not cranes but herons because of the way they flew with their heads drawn in close to their bodies, and for their topknot crests of feathers) “Stephen Crane” and “Hart…
Old woman on the rocks you look so happy. I’ve been dying to tell someone I have no past but we share no common lexis for that. And anyway you don’t need to know more— everyone is eager to be empty. This is a nice breeze so let’s just sit here a while growing fonder…
This subway map reminds me of the colored stripes on hospital floors that guide us to recovery or dead ends (I lift my glass to the Amber line), or the spacious room that overlooks a beautiful parking lot where the roofs of the cars are like tiles you’ll be walking on in the same sunshine,…
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…
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