No place to lie down and say: home, I live here, work here, grow and reap here. No place to send myself. So in this cold night with a borrowed coat and a borrowed bike I sit looking out the window of a borrowed home and a borrowed wife. And this body. It gets later…
The friend who is concerned with backdrops, not us, but what we stand against, his way of looking at the women he loves, to not look at them at all but at roofs, a bit of sky. To understand when exactly a woman is angry because of the way she works her mouth he believes…
I sit alone in the kitchen thinking about my lover who said it's over and listen to the guy in 12B end his binge with a song so full of wine it sounds red. I pour another cup of coffee, more mud than the last, then look out the window at the East River and…
It's been around a lot of times— the orbiting of my life— the notches grow blacker.
If the town celebrates his roasting it's their right. He's their hog. He's pork now. His life in the mash has gone sour. The bad fairy presides over his crispy feet. The prodigal has come back and does not need such company. Now the fires licks this one all over. Now the fire is giving…
Tonight wind is so strong I figure it's a ghost that makes it howl and leaves rustle until they scream oak. It comes down from the graveyard that overlooks a field of condo now instead of corn. Pox filled with fisherman and farmer back when the King kept the coast colony and taxed your heart…
It's got me. Right in the heart all this— a nest— made of broken things— twigs and frayed string; all my talk is a prayer, my eye toward color looks out.
And these others — what are they? Not dolomite, sandstone, shist or calcite. I might include ice — the colorless mineral, if ice stayed ice. But what is this one? Some go nameless, do not look like their pictures. This stingy lump, this once hot magma? This is our whole cause of trouble over arithmetic….
The roof of my ski chalet prays for more snow. Some fell last night but lost its virginity at dawn to a skier from Maine. In the distance a mountain shaped like a breast on its chest of state nurses a cloud. And there is a hawk or a dollar the way it flies— over…
No products in the cart.