selected past writing at 42opus
Will a boy wake in the night and hear his way out of the dark room into a dark hall, past a painting of a pear too dim to see, like the picture of a sea horse inside a closed book. When he hears his feet on the carpet, will there be carpet? When he hears his father roll over in bed, will his father roll over? What about sleet tapping the window? Will his ears create the snowplow shaking snow from a bush? Or does the plow rev itself into engine?
Smoke from the pipe of our lungs, unreaching, shifting molecules
to air and back
to smoke, will leave us, in the midst of this city, quietly to drown
among our past—
suicide gun blasts through walls, our waiting and heart-stopped nerves
then beginning their stretch…
8 September 2009 | poetry
If it wasn't for the windows, it would all be so different.
The light forced to choose sides, shadows grow different.
A house of glass with wooden gaps wrapped by trees,
gray inside when it rains, at dawn no different.
Porches hold what's too nice for closets. Reminders.
Rackets and bats, balls that you're taught to throw different.
I would like to openly tell you what I saw
but 1) somewhere along the road I added two letters to my name,
and this makes me slightly unaccountable.
2) I am also known to propose dances that have only one or two movements in sum.
2 December 2007 | poetry