Death does not speak to me with meaty breath although ancient hamburgers dance through my veins and the leering buffalo skull on the wall above my couch dribbles drool onto my heart. At fifty, I have learned to see the Grim Reaper in all his disguises. I can see him in a can of Budweiser….
In another hemisphere, it might be Spring. On another planet, there might be fifteen suns and no moon. You run the risk of no Miles Davis, no oxygen to breathe, no hyperbole. In the far-off corners of the cosmos, there might be ten key touch. There might be a constellation that resembles the profile of…
They’ll come she says just smear some jelly from your sandwich on the back of your hand and wait how she passes the drowsy hour of math before lunch the initials carved like Braille on the desk a fly alights on her sleeve her wrist they are drawn to us drawn to what is sweet…
this is god’s other flood my whole grave rising into the dirty-oven colored sky on that couple of wings you gave me
Let no air ever come between you. No clean sheet. No lamplight. No dust. Let the hotel curtain be your guide, the absolute fabric, the craving to get lost like a strong thread. Go blank against one another. Turn blue. That’s day and night. Stop needing your own blood so. Dry up and get in…
Scraps of foil, I think: someone’s littered, but the choppy glitter makes its way down the beach. Closer, I see the little fish red-eyed, lying in twos or strangely head-to-tail. Some heads are raised, gaping, as if to question this new solid air where they’ve been chased by a run of blues. Where I’m battling…
Your images come to you like the lost buffalo. In the sundown of your fancy, in the slanted town, two men face each other in the street. After the war, we all lived in a ruined city. I wore my black tie every day to class. The night they come calling for you, they don’t…
Slice of yellow wind in yellow curtains I sewed although the house was never mine except where the rod went through. Breeze does it. Or snow on pines. Faint click of yellowing spoons. Or crow-call piercing snow-pine reflected in the spoon-shaped past, its wing its crescent moon. Seeking any equally black thing. There,…
Like following a woodland path again and again Used to We made love like nobody’s business Things so far Have been good for me only the first time around The deeper the day, the lonelier the blue Thank the Lord the window’s open Baby’s got gas Like smoke in humid air We’re graceful, our hair…
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