selected past writing at 42opus
Kaya is missing. She is nowhere on the beach and Steve is worried that she's gone swimming, and has slipped drunk into the ocean and drowned.
Autotomy in spiders is a voluntary act.
With such surprises, anticipation should have them
humming like the truck of wear-dated carpet
that idled all night in the Hardee's parking lot.
2 December 2003 | poetry
"Would you still love me if I were frozen?" my brother asks from beneath his covers.
"I would still love you even if you were an electric dog," I murmur from across the room; the room I hate to describe.
The men in their ghost shirts before dawn.
Sunset swallowed like a snake's body
working on a smaller animal. River making the best of it.
You can see where garbage eddies in the shallows,
raccoon prints eroding from the silty banks.
10 December 2009 | poetry