AN APPARENT DEFINITION OF WAVERING

 

sleeping alone we’ve grown skinny moonlight without the moon

the lid of the rice pot rattles strands of hair on the blue rug

 

in the murky hot dawn awoken by a toenail

while the receipt prints she fingers a button on her sweater

 

a patch on the street where the streetlight’s out the sound of moths

leafless vines entwined in the unraveling barbed wire

 

everyone has a least one intelligent thing to say he says

on the window sill the tea bag steams slivers of glass you missed

 

above the bowl of apples a mosquito slow from the blood

the orange moon forgotten the heater creaks behind the couch

 

one light on at the laundromat a blue towel left on a dryer

at the lip of the storm drain tiny weeds with yellow blooms

 

in the margins a brief unveiling of skin the priority of conveyance

inside the buildings the heat of the day a bright crescent moon

 

pieces of bark in the shadow of the tree still covered with frost

he explains how acne is sexy on pregnant women

 

in the parking lot she notices the two notes stuck to my door

driver’s seat a few pine cones that came through the open window

 

upside down on the tables chairs their legs dull and nicked

a wasp tapping the glass bitten once an apple on the shelf

 

the flower so full it’s torn itself loose from the branch

all the clocks in the boxes say it’s ten after ten

 

having stolen the mystery they walk a few paces apart

Valentine’s Day I try to leave before the conversation

 

your movements on my periphery a jacaranda smell

where the print was on the wall the shadows of four push pins

 

in the white line freshly painted on the road a red wrapper

I resolve to live as an ugly man the broccoli is on sale

 

on the cement porch two dead plants in identical pots

can’t say yes and I can’t say no faintly the frogs in late winter

 

my body made of accordions no sun but a little blue

hours after you’ve gone I’m still arguing with you and the moon

 

the breakfast special missing a few letters not quite spring

getting wet in the rain a man in a wheelchair describes a knife fight

 

twilight it looks like a fish this morning’s paper wrapped in plastic

red leaves of April gestures the body permits lapses it does not

 

blown in from the patio a couple of spent wooden matches

nobody has swallowed the infinity pill and forfeits a plum

 

the old women who dye their hair talk to the ones who don’t

in that dress you convince me there is no justice in the world

 

the moth in the corner of my eye light bouncing off your bracelet

in the shade of the courtyard the plums have yet to bud

 

where the seasons blur a weakness for knee-high socks

the hand that always aches talking to a girl about long division

 

above the layer of sudden mist a flag in a spotlight

still winter a tiny fly hovers in front of the mirror

 

she says immersed in grasshopper casing all day a fitful rain

trailing from the dumpster a spool of kite string moss in the shadows

 

lit briefly by headlights a tree at the edge of the woods

coming apart in the rain on the porch an ad for women’s clothes

 

give me more vagina I thought the soup can said

yellowing the mist the last of the elm leaves on the sidewalk

 

spring rain the homeless man offers me a cookie from his pocket

at some point the music stopped cuts on my hand slow to heal

 

an automated message from the library it cheers me up

the sky a different color in each of the windows a bruised apple

 

the extra day in the year I count my change for potatoes

stuck in discarded gum a whirling seed pod wet with rain

 

separately we leave the pond in my pocket your peanuts

roots wrapped in burlap a tree tilted on the sidewalk

 

waking in the dark after afternoon lovemaking

every block the same cat missing on a telephone pole

 

the brief headlights pick up the staples in the telephone pole

on the frayed carpet a scrap of gold foil the smell of lemons

 

a fly flies out of the refrigerator at dawn street sweepers

full moon entangled on the bank of the creek a white plastic bag

 

rain blows on the mirror a broken blood vessel in my eye

neon across the highway on the embankment a paper cup

 

a headline declares the war goes badly red umbrellas closed up

a driver stops and opens the door and drops a leaf on the road

 

which part of me gets which part of you suddenly it’s spring

Mexican restaurant the smell of Pinesol one sheet of the sports page

 

a house made up of extra furniture on the warm breeze pesticide

the day on which you become someone else it’s hot by noon

 

for no reason the candle becomes brighter the smell of water

a dark hollow of blackberry the glint of glass streams of fog

 

painted white but it leaves a shadow the staple in the wall

the crowded cafe I read the same article I did yesterday

 

on the phone we grow silent I’m standing on my rain soaked shirt

avoiding definitions we stroke the tender leaves of the maple

 

rings of sunlight on the water parted by rocks a bottle upside down

habit keeps the horror from the body a thousand geese take flight

 

date flesh on her breath she whispers in my ear about the sprinklers

in the shower with a hangover and the first crane fly of spring

 

the sort of blue paper these things are written on a fly left behind

mud caked gloves on the sidewalk in a house a flute being played

 

under the bridge the last of the day’s heat the sound of the creek

a love letter to the butterfly gods with strategic misspellings

 

on the slat of the blinds slightly askew a still spotted bug

in the space between the cushions someone’s stuffed a striped tie

 

hands ice cold I walk among the flowering cherry trees

the block up ahead covered by the shadow of a cloud

 

spring evening leaning over the edge of the bridge a shopping cart

on the trunk of the white Cadillac in a wax cup half a soda

 

its view obstructed by blossoms the room a little darker

lonely at midnight I light some incense eat a little rice

 

a box of old photos the same note you wrote me every year

April Fool’s Day he tells me his grandmother is dying

 

splayed on the pavement a book of matches without their book

dusk moonrise the mayflies carried upstream by the breeze

 

almost midnight people waiting for the bus face different directions

mottled dusk something you said breaks off and floats away

 

the light burned out one mailbox open with keys dangling

a weed in bloom where the fence’s torn back the links gleam

 

all the ceiling fans moving at different speeds

a wave of jasmine the click of sparrow feet on concrete

 

appearing on both sides of the windshield a yellow spider

eggs and chocolate for dinner I write a letter I’ll never send

 

on the dull wooden floor a red sock wrapped around itself

where the graffiti was a shiny spot on the bench a witch’s moon

 

aluminum mail boxes a tree sheds its petals in the breeze

a crow with a broken wing in the sewer a trickle

 

she walks around the bar once talking on the phone then leaves

gravel road a pool of rain water ringed with tiny petals

 

in the fresh grass a tea bag spotted with rain

something falls in the empty house a pencil smelling of your perfume

 

lit with sun a sparse march rain bicycles tangled in the grass

under your skink an apparent definition of wavering

 

you’ve come by to drink my wine and seduce me with insults

we know it’s a planet the evening star sets in the rising mist

 

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: