Poetry

Where did the dust come from and how much of it do you have? When and where did you first notice the dust? Why didn’t you act sooner? Why don’t you show me a sample. Why don’t you have a sample? Why don’t you take some responsibility? For yourself, the dust? Personally I’ve never suffered…

She thirsts for her lamb, minutes old, still-born and cooling in a cold dawn, licking him clean with a growl of love till you turn her away, steal the corpse and rip with the hiss of the blade in a single tear throat to tail. The stripped flesh is a breath of steam, delta of…

           for R. S. Thomas Never more than a shadow, a silvering wind crossing a field, two ears alert in a gap then gone—its empty form warm, like a room someone just left, its heart leaping the earth, the silent immensities. Once, on a cliff walk, we saw it, a clod…

A Fairytale Once upon a time a girl ran away to join the zoo. She was only herself in the company of animals. Their smell and their wordlessness drew her. Their silence was not a lack, but a better dimension. At the zoo was a tiger, untamed and deadly. She’d killed a keeper and only…

Drum-brush of fabric. The clink of a zip on laminate floor. You step from a skirt to the sound of our breathing. The street outside swells to a canticle of traffic. We’ve time to touch as if reunited— the harshness of the journey written into the depth of a clinch. Chest to chest, your head…

“Hey, Dude, try these” she whispered, the proffered palm, the pinpoint lights, dark stars. I did. Pines, a gravel strand. Frat boy canoodling with a coed. Some cool waif approached, said fog would afflict the Milwaukee reservoir, fed me the falsified warnings of high, incoming tides. One string of her turquoise bikini come untied. “Au…

         Vous connaissez sans doute un voilier nommé “Désir.”                                                                     —Henri Laborit Like ruined churches in another snow that lengthens everything to nightfall, even faith…

¡Si muero,
dejad el balcón abierto!                             —Lorca The hut in the snow; the pinewoods;                                                             I was…

Night at the edge of the world, where nothing sings, except this mop-girl in her stonewashed coveralls, the silted airport gloom filming her hands like some ersatz account of sainthood. A prayer from her mother’s book, or a slum-town dance tune disappears into the pleats of fabric, when she bends into her work, unnoticed, which…