flicker in, fade out a spark is all I need, just a taste of heat and I’d ignite back to the inferno I once was. pour me into your veins, nurse me
Category: Poetry
Three old men on the bench at the edge of the square lean against the frescoed wall of the restaurant all evening long listen to oak leaves bristle under the swarm of starlings who rustle in at dusk. Hands
You are memory. Unstable, volatile, vaporous. I spread clay across your skin until you exist in solid form—a monument. Before this clay dries, I locate a place, a corner perhaps, to create a small opening, an aperture allowing your
I pick you up my white-haired woman creased and milkless & toss you far into the future where you will be spared rage & resignation the slow strangle of depression & unbounded
it has the feeling. not the feeling, but the square root of it. there are moons everywhere and they are tender to the touch. it is all very geometrical, isn’t it. god would say this; would remark on the geometricality.
At sixty, I pee all day, and sometimes at night. I say, “Sorry,” to my wife, as I toss covers and the cat for the bathroom. If I’m lucky and drank beer before bed, I may go even more.
I see that I am a form in space, sitting and waiting. The red light as alive as my lungs and my kidneys. The car in front of me, the car beside me, the drivers and passengers behind their
She examined her hands meticulously like a bark beetle examines maple branches. A stone-eating politeness permeated her voice. As she spoke, the yachts in the bay, their sails folded, glittered in the sunlight– splinters in the body of an
Bouguereau’s oily angel, Egalité devant la mort, also known to us as Equality before Death, the one who hurries to hover at the earthen table that moment of sundown with outstretched wings already darker than arms conveying just a
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