Polaris – you bastard – all that spinsresists you now. All that walksshall ne’er look to seek you tuckedbehind a maple sway. None that walkwill look upon the sky in harsh moonlightand cry, “Polaris, Oh, Polaris – where are you?Tether me thus that I shall not lose my way.” And yet you sit there – […]
Lumbricus Rubellus,or perhaps a finishing nail, 6d –I can’t tell from here,with these glasses –old ‘scripts – old eyes –shallowing focus. But, it is there,below the radiator,and the radiator is pink.It is there in dust – on pinefloorboards – unmoving –shriveled in droughtin the first case – bent,rusted and uselessin the latter. Either way – […]
If I had taken your handbefore finding your eyes;if I had traced the chippedrounds of your nails,and slid there – downto the calloused pads;if I had awakened a papercut, austere in the burdensof your fingers, would youhave recoiled, thought me –Fresh, unbounded, soiled? I would assumethat if I had mappedthe circuit of your toilsbefore meeting […]
Oh these blind trajectories,these pure set conditions,initial, merry, just so wandered –a shell thus thrown, a plungedalbatross beak, a shearedstab of ice, a moon’s pulland a breath elastic – All these and a calculus,as crest to valley lumbersin its way – sine to sine –chopped though ever freeand unlapped after. Yes, that is how to […]
While logically consistent,I cannot cotton a multiverse.I must refuse a worldin which you never left home,in which I never went home.And I must refuse a worldin which your tires lost traction,in which your hands and cool reflex failedand you slammed a jack-knifed semi.And the one in which we slept angryfor the first time and dissolvedin […]
Vanity! What say you to a tea-rose,a tulip, plumped for a measure of gaudyand scent. Would you fault the bee its lure?Would you slap the hand that coaxedsuch a fulsome bloom from a ditch wearyblossom – wild, drought heavy and pure? What say you to the rouged cheeksof young women, to the thumped chestsof young […]
Ah, that first year – when we still imaginedour sustenance – those first kennebecs,huge in the manure field, papered like birch,soft as creamed cheese. Dave’s mom planted there, but she was dead.He asked only a smidge of harvestfor the plot, new turned from blackand hereford compacted absence. And maybe he tasted his mother’s apron.Maybe he […]
