a query where our arms met slightly at the wrist

wait

Go long you say while we lay in bed. Begging, in some sense. Things like our bed have hair— rolled into your fingers into a ball. We are classic. In some sense, naked. A bowl of fruit on the floor, torn tickets I jot somethings on, We listen to Dylan. Claudia’s pink jaw gleams, she …

the dinnerman

I’m a dinnerman an I arrive—meats, green peppers, nuts, and milk—pull the truck to my plate and pour out. Mess hall. Strapping young guns at my feet asking ‘are you going to eat that’ as if you can ever finish, as if as if, eyes shut, you can hitchhike from memory. Lone wolf dinnerman. Self …

Blue

And I think about him, two handed in little hand, blooming about life, with this child. This little puddle of rainwater. This slippery thing in my hand, fish, burn, cold cut. There’s a bone in his hip that pulls his entire body out of the ocean. I pressed it with the blue tips of my …

Old Tyme Sonnet

I know you won’t. Not here. Not this time. Not in this house. Not even back in the back room, unbuttoning the lights. Not for all the flocks of dark birds in winter. So don’t ask me about the moon. There’s no bright thigh spread there, no animal sticking his snout in the gauze. Night …

Apartment

– For Alex We liked the door, to linger there before bed whispering  Did you lock it? –more like an accusation. We blamed eachother all the way to the kitchen. Laid like lost suitcases, his and hers, watching a plane drag its shadow into space and wondering how to stop it. Did you lock it? asking …

The Photographer

So there’s a girl—there’s always a girl— wrapped in a white bedsheet beside you when the cloth collapses. Same with birds, chucked up there like dirty handkerchiefs blown off beautiful women en route to the movies. The lines are winding through the street again. She used to say one good picture takes the next. The trick, …

Bilge Water

Isabel, I’m don’t want to be alone. Not solitary the way some people say She is a stone on the shore. More like a color before someone dips into it. But don’t mistake my intentions, Isabel. Don’t go crashing into places like Virginia just because they’re green, or because someone has seen me naked there. …

In the Beginning

there was only movement. Feet looked more like hands, and we walked them into the shape they are today. Someone constructed a subway, and people ducked under the earth like ants. Planes were a passing fad, until scientists figured out how to shatter the body, and blow the fragments a thousand places at once. Everyone …

Epithalamium

Darling, the delta has closed in purposefully. It licks your lips and eyelids shut. So you’re standing there, like something I forgot. There is nothing touching (so remote) a scrap of your hair, a thigh. I’m talking about the side of your body submerged. Not knowing the difference between finger and arm. “Fall” is the …

Anna

It was Anna’s fault. She asked “What would happen if a bird tried to fly away from itself… surely it would need two sets of wings.” Anna is ancient. So the birds in the boneyards heard. They made great haste in growing the second pair. Their dead sleep broken, engines of feathers shook in the grass. …

Winter

Fight in January

There’s no tulips this side of the rain forest. Only roses growing gnarly and black. Then it smacks your face like a giant splay of Queen Anne’s lace. White as ice, and crumbling fast. Now you’re running out the door. No one’s behind you. Winter scissors your fingers apart. There. On the ground. Smoke in …

He’s snapping a fox-tail under his coat.

Little Red Riding Hood

You want what you’ve always wanted: to have never read this before in a story. To take the basket of sweet rolls and tea bags and gallivant into the good deep woods. Never mind the load, the gingham print, the picnic. Trees taller than all the men you left—and you like that, the way no one is watching, the cardinals …

Swimming

One must remember to breathe because it’s not involuntary. Twist in the blue roots and shake them off. Don’t stop digging. The moment both hands aren’t shovels, the world closes up like a peephole. You can’t see the other side, don’t hear what they’re saying. Water washes their white faces beige, barely remembered, the brush …

Ophelia

It’s spring so the sky takes longer to die, jaundiced along the trees. The heat smells like your father, asleep in the yard. Fishes swim between our legs. Where is the love of your life when you need him? Turned into a fox, stalking back and forth across the palace floor, with a gasoline canister …