The first ones were attached to my dress at the waist, one on either side, right at the point where hands could clasp you and pick you up, as if you were a hot squeeze bottle of tree syrup, and the sashes that emerged like axil buds from the angles of the waist were used…
From his monstrous planet, light-years from the cities, And still coated in protective larva, He arrives in no-time flat. Within himself, as if chanting A mantra, he whispers “curved space,” “chronity,” “Warped equation,” “parallel breath.” The silence Of the ashen landscape dunks his heart In a deeper ocean of quiet. The ghosts take no notice….
Always you feel beautiful in the light. Is it only sensation you've craved: the body born to bloom, arcing open beneath the sun, the smile surrounding your every curve, pore, angle. For this some say you may have sold your soul. So now for days, months, more, there's been nothing to make you shine as…
When I eat crab, slide the rosy rubbery claw across my tongue I think of my mother. She'd drive down to the edge of the Bay, tiny woman in a huge car, she'd ask the crab-man to crack it for her. She'd stand and wait as the pliers broke those chalky homes, wild- red and…
With your silent, slender hand you put out stars. You give away my name like a bee does honey. Bite into me! You ignite my eyes. A distant sea of buffaloes in the green, ashen air. The taste is replaceable, I am not. Nailed to the cross, I spend your fruit. And look—every drop of…
Out of oblivion, birds the heron arranging its shawls, the tick of a blackbird, there, like a Chinese spoon, gulls in gutta-percha overshoes, and then the sound of the sea getting out of the bath. In the big bedroom, my friend's mother is dying in front of the children, wishing to spare them her struggle…
That sadness of white bread— To weave a noose of farewell Like the lightbulb over the supper table Transcribing a circle, where your forehead meets the world, Where your words become other people And you are doled out, eaten without butter. * * * Because I love you the ceiling and the air Suddenly matter. Split clear…
take me I'm paranoid enough to imagine the woman with towels steams letters off my corrasible bond and rearranges them to tell the cooks not to serve me the right meat I have English publishers who will scale sheer stone and glass on days when nothing much is happening my typewriter's often mistaken for the…
With the flat side of white plastic spatulas three old ladies hunch on a park bench, slapping gobs of blackberry jam onto slabs of dark bread. Nearby a hobo rolls over on his belly, spots the women and thinks just how sweet that jam would taste. Slowly, he gets to his feet. The women do…
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