Poetry

[apocalypsis—L. to uncover, disclose] i. “I am the sign of the Letter, / . . .” No seed. Flat beneath my hand: bone. Pelvis a field, but no seed. Because there was no punishment like fucking, its whip burned Adam and nothing after. Because shine took flight like two parrots so deep green they seemed…

to turn on the radio to rearrange the scenery to gnaw on the end of the alphabet is to soften it I could swallow its enzymes when I’m silent I could hammer through the windshield and crawl onto the hood where it is warm I’ve done it before to dismantle the snowman he is melting…

take a boy on a motorcycle feeling powerful. He has achieved the status of the boy on the motorcycle. Only something is not quite right. He rides it like yes, in and out, back and forth like day after day, all okay. That’s just what’s the matter, like nothing happens. So when he gets home,…

:    One might study ornithology & the bird elude him. :    The bird & the study of birds are ordinary things. :    The ordinary’s most beautiful: how earth endures itself      in building’s brittle sunlight, gecko’s scuttle under aloe,      these shadows puddled in mortar & bark & the wind      milled blue through palms….

Aged prophets, cradled in Crivelli’s gold, on a heat-waved page replicating quattrocento frescos, seem shy above the trees’ periscopes as if the sky were an unfamiliar cathedral, and, should they appear there now, standing between receding clouds, how gilded their halo, what color their gowns and what scripted tablet would they hold to admonish the…

Beautiful cars Slant away in the dusk You can drive through Honeymoon orchards Where time is one foot above the ground With kiss Or pause for night’s cold career To be alone The crickets Do not think with me of your daughter There She bathes and I sulk In the dirty water left behind Since…

It happened when I started . singing hope to sleep The sycamore wants inside . scrapes siding and screens afraid of the wind . Thirst wins over wariness at the waterhole all bow . I have seen rainfall in brightest sunlight . but not snowfall under stars . Something listening . at the bottom of…

my ears go underwater as i speak, just one, & then another wood floors surround w/ boxes & sound, systems of voices & trajectories the mouth of the river & the left coast, montreal to twelve months of vancouver imagine, i said, doing everything it is you do, except in the shower even thunderstorms erupt…

The house gathers dust and rushes. (Unreadable.) And the girl’s body arches. See the unbecoming angle. I lie down now. Open-mouthed-bird. And trust they’re all singing. These our only taboos: Her folded notion of water and clear voice. Her hand unwrapped. Climb in closer. Without line these your limbs, gills, wrist a small cut on…