Early winter like a set jaw.
Us sitting on its little neck in the moonlight,

where the stone wall’s urged north on its mortar.

The scent of pines and crushed ivy.
Wood sorrell dripping on love’s pink.

The cure of a pond slimming its ice disc

toward the shore, where down among twigs
sap promises the oration of amber

in a thousand years.

A shipwreck. A wave’s one cheek dappled with timber and oil. The other concave and hidden, tacking death’s emblems on the surface ( Read more... )

or, A Poem For Lindsay Lohan Were She To Be A Housewife In VermontThe quake knew all noise would interrupt ( Read more... )

The thrones of things keep waiting. Small boys ( Read more... )

The night hangs like a grape ( Read more... )

The dais with a holy land spreading slowly from it. The angels have read of themselves before becoming. In the harbor, ships are growing with myrr in their holds ( Read more... )

The sculptor’s wife is leaving him.

She believes what matters comes from her body.

The leech of her impress on his hand has made it so he can only work in plaster, bits of white stone coming from his eyes.

Obsessed with to bear and the act of letting, she bore herself into a child ( Read more... )

Gaslight on a brass letter opener, thin metal tugging out a missive. Some advice. An itinerary. Land dropped into names like little holes ( Read more... )

Another star died ( Read more... )

The raptor in the air, and its weaving ( Read more... )