The New Sound

those faithful plants I neglected still shelter my [redacted] even after the party is long gone the conversation buried in coarse sand

you mentioned that the fashion this year will be nothing but zippers and mismatched shoes so leave me out of it and let me sleep in the sweet green morning calls dropping dew

but at my back I sometimes hear Noel Fielding reciting bad poetry in my ear and

perhaps the goal is to write something that no forget it yes I see you noticed it too but went back to your puzzle so thanks for that

on the last page of the notebook
steadied by a thick
stack of New Yorkers
the pen
but the dog in her cuteness
the urge for coffee what kind of
is that a
the dishwasher needs unloading
and the heat flows out
from my fingers over
ever higher rooftops

I say you because I can’t
say me
I mean I’d rather not the little
electric shock when we
lie the air in the room
not quite light or true
why not invent another I by which
I mean you and sacrifice
this it for its shortcomings
and oceans
of weaknesses but
maybe it’s not as
dramatic as all that have you
stopped to consider well go on
what were you going to say

Letter in Which I Break Up With My Imaginary Girlfriend

I’m not even sure sometimes why I open the notebook in the cicada-littered summer dumpster-diving raccoons running out

of hyphens at least the morning cool decent coffee the old stump finally yanked out but this bad egg I have to swallow this ache I can’t attach a story to and where do you break

off but that’s the default I suppose if we know the well is running dry we feel guilty about every sip but forget about the rain

and sure it’s my own dumb fault drowning on land unsure how to shout for help so

what I want to say is that I’m glad you stayed on the track I couldn’t find and maybe someday you may think of me and laugh but in a good way

True False Starts

But maybe.

That book and the twist they rave about.

Grit in your shoes from the famous shoreline.

How to cook that dish we loved from the Thai place.

Onion chili cashew something with good pain.

Not in the dark windows at the mall or

medieval bling of those other windows.

But still.

Footsteps of others who.

One day long ago a.

Did I maybe.

Watch the birds stalk small fish as the sun sinks.

The revolving door of breath.

Even this headache.

What difference will one more restart


late in spring it creeps

in a spider has had a

thousand children in the corner

I discover one day looking

for a salve for this pain in

the twinge in the like you

want to hear about my

latest diagnosis anyway

they assured me that the sound

of splintering bone is normal

for this time of year but don’t

worry about it try this new game

Small Bones of the Feet

Turning the corner

but it was long ago

the pen feels funny

turning the corner at the

end of the parking lot

where the water

abruptly ends or

starts a marshy

spot long-growing

green a few small herons

waking maybe a dream

of clouds of silver fish

fading as they begin the long

stalk and the poem just sort of

ends there though I wanted

to talk about childhood homes

and the deep wound

of contentment we carry

on our hunts

if we’re lucky but

wait do you

hear that new

bird calling