In Epistles

He tells me to move

11.09.2005 In Epistles

and I do.  I do. His white dog drawing the leash. Pieces of moth light swing from the lamp. Mice. A paperboy bangs his hat on the stoop. This dark under a dress. This.

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He says I look

11.03.2005 In Epistles

small from this far. Parting the windows on Sunday. Popping out. From then on calling distant as sparrowprints: he cannot tie things to his mind. What flails, his hands in here his hair where things left off, is not right. And people calling, small as sticks, up to him. Something, He does not hear.

Tagged as: NP

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We Refuse

10.23.2005 In Epistles

to every day things. Our claws on the white table. Like dishes I wish you would just do. Making becomes, you said, outside. And once outside, we refuse. We wrap ourselves in wire.

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I would weild

09.29.2005 In Epistles
10 of 12 in In Epistles

a large pair of scissors. Two eyes, two holes, big enough for his fingers. I would shear the field sighing over the surface of words. Flat yes flat. I would slip my hands underneath the new world and ask if snow is instead. If this is what we said. * earlier version published in Cab/Net [...]

Tagged as: Published

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If he is

09.29.2005 In Epistles
9 of 12 in In Epistles

seeds or shapes cut from paper. If he chewed through snow like that. If newspaper bangs the door each morning and I turn around like he is doing now and rise * published in Cab/Net 2

Tagged as: Published

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When the executioner’s tired

09.29.2005 In Epistles
6 of 12 in In Epistles

he sleeps on the rack. Wears chains on his head like a wig. Then I touch to his hair. [Move over.] Move through the time like a radio. I wheeze like a radio into his ear * published in Cab/Net 2

Tagged as: Published

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Deer here

09.29.2005 In Epistles
4 of 12 in In Epistles

hoof the roots at dusk. Soon. It dims the eyelets of trees, swayings, a scree of lights I watch work across the black hills, gleaning. Certain birds scissor the poplars and counting them now is kind of balancing, we certainly did, fitting the bright snow into a holster. I held you to mountains and to [...]

Tagged as: Animal Poems, Published

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We sleep

09.29.2005 In Epistles
3 of 12 in In Epistles

like our bodies are together. Hands, white where they are. A thing of hands. To me he says Misses and I don’t know what to do. This dark underaddress. This.

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Half

09.29.2005 In Epistles
2 of 12 in In Epistles

of it sits. On a night like this. With no human shape. Snow goes down to death out there. I read Thel and it goes down. The train comes, the doors go down, a box of meat drops on the snow

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Artaud dies

09.29.2005 In Epistles
1 of 12 in In Epistles

and his dying sinks like snow. Like spit and glue, who drinks it. Who would not like to know? That after dinner he poured out. Lighting each piece of snow on the windowsill, he placed an empty glass on the windowsill

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