red the dog barks at sunset clouds but not forever
(First published in Under the Basho.)
-
Sonnet
with false starts buzzing around my head what do I do do I recall one fly I cut in half with a glass while trying to trap and free it—then sculpt some little line to be stomped bloodless by the sound of boots on the ceiling—so do I then try to persist with this misty I and words like persist—but to speak plainly there is no window in which to speak plainly about a small flower past my boots that I wish could fly into colors that open a window into a land where I could lie…
but now I’m cut in half and half of me
may persist and maybe that I will fly
-
what hope in this pen and an ink
nearly invisible
earlier the morning sun on
the trees made me think of
large mammals and their humid scent
in the sun in the grass
the countable galaxies of
bright dew and now the chair
makes sarcastic music of my
musing but the night is
still and so wide without a moon
-
those little hopes for the
weekend with green softness
over the lawn insectsfloat or dart the breeze
was so important thatit might keep me up tonight
I know it’s not your problemthe pickles came out so well
you know the darkness
catches up before
summer really gets
going I should stop
saying you know you
know anywhoo thelast time we spoke
you were spitting
in the eye of
a hurricaneit’s always the way when the days get less
generous with their light and walking the
dog you see furry legs in the trees and
a noise near or far you choose to ignore
-
Who I’ve Been Reading
Ada Rae Merwin, T. S. Coleman,
Allen Louise Eliot, Edna
Limón, Geoffrey D. Graham, Anne Glück,
John Kalytiak Davis, Emily
Gay, Joshua Sexton Cummings,
Jorie Whitman, Gertrude Stein, John
Armantrout, William Aimee Wordsworth,
Tracy K. Marvel, E. E. Ashbery,
Wanda Joy Ginsburg, Kimiko Bennett,
W. S. Dickinson, John Rich Smith,
Ross Berryman, Andrew Keats, Walt
Nezhukumatathil, H. Harjo
Hahn, Adrienne Chaucer,
Olena St. Vincent Millay,
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after great doubt eye strain and intermittent rain some peanut butter and crackers but months grow crumble and blow away in the humid breeze it never left
-
slow syrup in my sternum sweetens the lost leaves’ silver session
(First published in Under the Basho.)
-
Sonnet
with what time is left listen to
air conditioners drop drop drop
on the used tea bag of summer
while the waves of heat hit you on
uneven shards of sidewalk—though
later perhaps you’ll find some sweet
solitude and dream some drip could
bring a forgotten bloom or rare
herb back but the brink keeps creeping
and that green shade so far away—
so retreat to concrete above
the noise but not the heat and make
a quiet in which your fingers
if nothing else may sprout some leaves
-
imagine the day fine and the gremlin
in the intestine who shatters the desk
before the final exam to stay warm
through an unremarkable winter may
smile before the surprise final exam
-
music from an escaping dream or an undigested night in which we finish the great & clever expense reports designed to ensnare the accountant of the faerie king
-
motorcycle noise at night cool after the storm with crickets and my neighbor’s creaking floor through my ceiling chamomile tea
-
three kinds of salty licorice a sweatshirt
with an immense kitten some Maple Almond
Cashew butter compressed white tea cardamom
seeds in their own grinder a pack of Sugru
a Kaweco Lilliput fountain penclick lick click but is it too late to pluck
the prized moon-blooming oh you’re back already—what did you say about the lack of laurels
in the breezy storage space—perhaps we
should look instead through an Olympic screen
to obscure the high and low so the worm may
spare my stomach on a warm winter day
-
no more synthetic motor oil
milkshakes from now on just
the nectar of golden
suffocation under a sudden
shower of compliments
for a one-star reviewand my hands remain clean. Though
this knife of yearsand never chose to explain. To this day
nothing grows there
-
in those dependent days they worked
nights and days and when home slept so
we had to stay quiet despite
the urge to loudly play so we
kept the TV low, laughed with the
laugh track and didn’t understand
spring and winter and spring again
-
before the day when the day if
but today
let a song slip through your fingers
find that last breath
barreling toward some release but
the sand in your
shorts the ice cream begins to melt
for a second
you forget that this is the way
the world moves and
that’s not
quite it either there was a kind
kind of light maybe
it falls and smalls and
smaller the world
spins people go
to parks interviews
you hear a voice
but the words garbled
maybe with a
little work but
that’s how it all
starts again freed
from one hole
you fall in another
-
I.
His clothes so out of fashion you wonder
if the gentle breeze from the willow will
shatter him into an ant hill of teeth
and trinkets you can sell at the marketII.
Your fabled jewel that could
end the conflict but when
you tell the story drops
of blood fall from your handIII.
Tended with a heat gentle as
breath until the crow bubbles up
soon you will understand her voice
as though you too were from the moon
other animals 