My friend says, "If you look for love you'll never find it." Then she tells me how she and her boyfriend take a shower together every morning.
Let us first think about our spines.
Twitching in the harmless outfit. See blades
& sockets, then dinosaurs. Then see the scar
of string through our center.
See the hand: root-like and hooked.
Notched knuckles, scars traveling
veneer of brown skin. See how it crowds
the skull, pushing inward, depraved…
Today, it's the rise
and billow of sheets
on the clothesline, the necessary
rectangles snapped, bleached…
Dreams that no matter what button you push, the floors keep flicking past, 33, 34, 35, that you're walking on a long bridge, no land in sight…
Not hay. Too singular. Not chaff, not grain. Something Pre-Socratic about its attraction to living heat, stable dung. Not lace. Not grass-whistle…
there comes a time in which, no matter how important poetry may be, it seems more important to go out and buy throw pillows.
oh I cannot mention what I saw but I will tell you that it involved a celebrity.
Did you know the ocean has a skin this morning, a real skin of light, like a newborn? October turning tropical.
Nothing is something. The sky diminishing during earth's first tilt toward fall.
The secret lies in elevation; in the erection of it, its meaning, what it relates to. The concept of the finite gave way to loss. Dream gave way to prophecy.
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.
Across vast distances in space, one cat calls to another;
a bat swings round a lamppost like a satellite.
Welcome to the little room.
You can bring a world in here,
spill an ocean or two…
A deck of cards on the corner. A sun led steadily away; no better for it. Sitting around in paper gowns. In deep study.
Several hundred miles of tulips. The fetlock sunk in mud. Doing what we don't need to know about to the steel spines of the violets. To the dog's nipples hanging just off the dirt. To the jade chimes.
I found the lost ice fisher with his glassed-in face. A human light, a field of frozen water. Wrapped in fur, thinking of his horse. Thinking of something else entirely: Wild cows in a silver wood.
Light pours into the space between
here and the next thing I can see.
Life on second floors means to know…