All these false endings. Nothing can (what’s a body, what’s a body to break up on): rocks, story of the buckeye butterfly’s eternal detail–I broke my abacus toting up your every spot dash & line darling.
Coordinated invasion “hold her head” Send you flowers on the eve of your departure The superior view sunders the walls that were You: what rules is lure of earth.
With your passport to the dream you can enter & depart * Well. This would have bored you already, murmur music, mystic tornado chasing– You’d yawn, asking, whose have I become? why do I work now in your dreams instead of my own. The making ephemeral: New York to London in 45 minutes– So much for… Read more →
ūnus Body: boneless muscle with three hearts, the beak of a venomous parrot, and a siphon. Ink sacs, pupils that follow the horizon of the ocean; intelligent melanin to re-image lion-fish, coral, rock, eel; tongue-suckers, sense-grips to hold and taste and hold and taste but not to feel, o octopodiformes. duo Intelligence and sensation: not to be tricked by screw-top… Read more →
In my poem of wisdom I’m a tree. I don’t care if I’m original. I don’t care if I’m everybody’s image. I grow out of stone. I stand in a wide field. And when they hang the rope from me I’m the same tree. And the girl Who never weeps does not weep. That, too, is okay. One day I… Read more →
Of course, my timepiece was made out of scissors and you cut the hands with still more hands. You knew I was hankering for a pale rose or a nose- gay to stitch along a minor work of Pliny* at, say, dusk? Of course,… Read more →
How can you know you’ve survived? The hands still move, the feet, the heart though the mouth is frozen shut. I am taking the groceries out from the bag. I am putting the dishes Into the sink. I am sweeping under The table, and the tree outside, with its bare braches, sways gently in the wind. The children come in,… Read more →
1. Close your eyes and count to spring. Then, ready or not: grind us into flower, shove us in the oven to bloom like bread. Brother, I have seen her impatient at the window rosemary in her hand like a votive branch. 2. It is not my house anymore with its pinebox smell. She has redecorated my children with bruises… Read more →
after Anne Sexton’s “Housewife” Some women marry foxes. She wears her furs around the house, red as a fever, blood under the fresh manicure. See how she prepares the meal: rabbit for lunch, rabbit for dinner. Men come home hungry as hounds after the chase. A woman is the hunter. That’s the main thing.
I keep forgetting things. You, for example, who I tagged “important” with a yellow star but never followed up— too busy flinging myself face-first into the space jam before checking the expiration date. And just as the bossa nova rhythm really hits its elliptical love trot… Read more →