Poetry

We keep this distance. One distance. Many of us. From the guide with the snake in the pillowcase. Though no safe distance. So we close in. * He says the venom would end it in minutes, an errant life closed in, now coiled and digestive, now currented lashing at the bag, a line snapping on…

You would not have known me. I saw contradictions beneath every event. Rose garden or gas station? Swimming pool or eternity? I might look up, convinced something had ended, or something had begun. As I walked between bedrooms and pharmacies, I might come to a furious pitch. One month I thought I was marked. I…

“And therein found this face” there at the bottom          something moved behind the panel sliding, the habit of inhabiting. We were hungry. We turned into hands and then into shadows of hands moving at the back of the mirror. They poured liquid metal across flattened panes. Ice upon ice: antimony, lead, colophonium                   (once…

(Study #1) The wind! Forest of frightened women. Flap of ears sound of wooden castanets panting dry tongues. (Study #2) Moleculations. The Little Toe of Their Bacchanal still unbroken against your housedress way of feeling alive. The Fruits & Nuts pattern. Yet you rarely eat among people since in heavenly harmony fully dethinged they came,…

Your papillae momentus is shot, these pills may help but you’ll probably lose your right arm. My right arm! How will I live? So the client thrashes out of the office like a man learning to swim by drowning but after a couple weeks, he can almost float, button his own coat. So he goes…

        To the loft and to them I came to be the opiate, not the administered,         fiending to become the body without self, reversible as a jacket, Able Was         I Ere I Saw Elba, as the trompe l’oeil in Psych remaining two faces         human, the Queen and her Consort, seen from another…

The horse, Susan said, because it is the blankest of slates, or because our success—our genes’ successes—are linked, has been written on extensively by our needs. Dumb giants pawing the ground, father, mother, escape, sexuality glistening and rippling, forelock and fetlock, footloose and fearless, or the pleasures of the fearful—fleeing the sudden gesture, careening through…

A wing’s a bridge                        made of light and lightness. Such an unattaching, then then, such a humming garden. What is finished is brutal. Pink            swallow, brown wings and tail                                 acock on a porcelain vase, can be diving so, only if whole is the greenest color.                                 Return, world. Be a little whether….

The goddess of the hunt is not herself. She is tired having waited, having sniffed around surgically. All her arrows jiggle with nothingness, so she turns herself inside out: her tongue is a tail, her throat a torso, her stomach bundled with eyes and claws. She feels, on her cheek, a new weather. Angels drift…