SHE ROUSES BRIEFLY AND SAYS DRAGONFLY 1994-2004

 

on the bus muffled radios telephone poles list in the fog

 

 

shadows in the heap of bananas one of us will leave

 

 

chance and other extraneous factors the fading curtains stay drawn

 

 

from a number of people strands of hair tangled in the lint trap

 

 

it returns for just a moment my sense of smell the bewildered elms

 

 

the dawn air of spring a ticking from the grasses

 

 

the moon almost full above the temple we decide on lamb

 

 

clouds like nerves like cholesterol silt filled a bottle floats

 

 

with nothing left to say i tell you it’s a nice sweater

 

 

light leaves the lamp in long drips something stirs out in the field

 

 

beneath your weight on the sticky couch the odor of bleach

 

 

bumping the glass a bee tries to get to a green straw

 

 

the barren spindly trees where they overlap i’ll meet you there

 

 

three voices that sound like five make use of exits and exit wounds

 

 

its view obstructed by blossoms the room a little darker

 

 

a piece of stone missing from the step gray wind almost warm

 

 

tell me what we’ll do on a bench by the river when no one’s around

 

 

doused in bright winter sun the empty train car terrifying

 

 

after rain the drip of rain a scratch in the bottle catches the light

 

 

all i can taste is her prelude to fascism

 

 

skin of the oak soft with moss a crow skews his feathers

 

 

paint fumes hips off kilter a confusion between petals and leaves

 

 

i think they’re having sex but maybe they’re just fighting over food

 

 

filling with spiders you shoes darken into the toes

 

 

a pile of mailboxes doors off their hinges and one white letter

 

 

an approaching shadow not knowing it’s yours

 

 

a long row of shopping carts rain collects on their blue handles

 

 

the bag of my head pulls at my skull a chill to the humid evening

 

 

the stick snaps a slight back and forth motion to the train

 

 

dressing afterwards her voice hardens

 

 

standing on phone books for a better angle a map of the world

 

 

the spider wraps the twig that fell and drops it

 

 

five pm leaning into the cement stairs two girls play their flutes

 

 

where you shave and where i shave commercial relations break down

 

 

more real in the red curve of the wine glass a giant pine cone

 

 

new pavement wet with rain a leaf slides here and there

 

 

pea on the trajectory of a scratch i will be a ghost dance

 

 

on the still life of pears the rapid shadows of a ceiling fan

 

 

unlocking the door the key she gave back to me

 

 

dangling from the budding tree phone lines the moon full enough

 

 

dusk eaten at the center a yellow elm leaf

 

 

drinking tea i didn’t stop the war i just forgot about it

 

 

my body made up of accordions no sun but a little sky

 

 

now that we’re separated your ass at the public pool

 

 

a moth has flown out of my mouth or so it seems

 

 

looped over itself on the wet pavement a useless rubberband

 

 

the tree fills with berries a small flaw in the glass

 

 

burnt dull light cleans the air of its translucence a june death

 

 

where she points at the red flower i don’t see anything

 

 

a dream of cats in heat the rain leans one way then the other

 

 

last week mushrooms now dandelions

 

 

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

 

 

underneath the sign that points to the zoo deselect my autoclave

 

 

wings dusting the melon drippings a moth still in the wind

 

 

i wait for you to stick you tongue in my mouth an autumn sunburn

 

 

the crosswalk whistles skimming the pavement an empty bag

 

 

not so much a volume as a pressure feign slight uncertainties

 

 

in from the rain i smell like a dog the folds in the pink napkin

 

 

on the wall a patch of sunlight shrinks darkens your loaded questions

 

 

a torn envelope two nicked coins sticky with date flesh

 

 

by streetlight ants crawl out of the slot in the meter

 

 

pinning the corsage my sister’s new sister sticks my chest

 

 

in the moldy cardboard box three jars of different size

 

 

remember you naked i can’t even remember what you wore

 

 

cracked and hanging from a cord the side mirror filled with trees and sky

 

 

heat of dawn a skinny stray perches on the lip of the pool

 

 

oak leaf the wiper won’t shake free things to keep your hair in place

 

 

we speak of our childhood tv shows as if they were festivals

 

 

sun opaqued grime on the window a shadow passes

 

 

objects fall the definition of silver wavers slightly

 

 

dream hungry the call of a crow on the telephone pole

 

 

sandwiches pile up on his doorstep the rain smells of salt

 

 

something feral in her translucence it’s not going to happen like that

 

 

briefly green from the copier two faces speaking to each other

 

 

just before it grows light you cough and rustle over there in the bed

 

 

last cranefly of the summer the storm purples the room again

 

 

out on furlough they return through a chain link fence the moon indented

 

 

i hold her against the possibility of nothing other than this

 

 

the countenance of the little girl muted distant televisions

 

 

in the grout bits of the letters that didn’t wash off

 

 

afternoon glare mist collects between trees and in doorways

 

 

the latch’s resistant slip into the click a moth grazes her leg

 

 

tensile strength of thistle the outcome of serotonin and loophole

 

 

that dark thing in the green of your eye next to the window that’s me

 

 

days of rain the photo tacked to the wall starts to curl

 

 

he washes his feet in the lake the cormorants their wings

 

 

panties left under the chair the house creaks in the cold

 

 

my face a trapdoor spider candy foil floats along the dark train floor

 

 

rich cranial threnody you have to kiss your demons on the mouth

 

 

gravel road in a murky puddle a ball drifts slowly

 

 

the moon sets behind the building across the way my pills

 

 

rain louder than thoughts everything comes but the bus

 

 

draped over the rim of the tub a red washcloth the bulb flickers

 

 

today i wait all day to brush against you as if by mistake

 

 

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

 

 

valentine’s day i try to leave before the conversation

 

 

the orange glint of rush hour way up there a hawk circling

 

 

she says it’s my parlor trick the day just light plus wind plus trees

 

 

the freezing mist lingers in the dirt yard a few white flowers

 

 

the cemetery in the crevices of your palm blackberry juice

 

 

holding together the last of the snow a few pine needles

 

 

all the lights humming uncomfortable in every position

 

 

in the blue of his eye some wires and behinds them clouds

 

 

your note unread i hear it in my pocket when i sit down

 

 

a silty pool the tip of a rusting coat hanger juts forth

 

 

light from the car door an erratic circling of bats

 

 

like they’ve had an argument the crumpled napkins on the floor

 

 

all of this in the balloon listing against the white curtain

 

 

new lines in my finger evening mist overtakes the high clouds

 

 

after the movie it’s still raining

 

 

sunk in the mud a crushed blue can clover casting a shadow

 

 

doppleganger spring a drawer of torn lingerie and failed medicines

 

 

anticipating the pencil point breaking the smell of cooked rice

 

 

she’s in the shower an airplane crosses the darkness behind the trees

 

 

deciding not to clean out my thumbnail an unlisted number

 

 

in this town the lists are shorter the sky affixed with snaps

 

 

the way she says egrets struggling jasmine

 

 

all along the tracks splintered shapes swelling in the rain

 

 

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

 

 

the lights go out here in the room all along the full moon

 

 

distance acquiesces to heat you tell the fly he’s ephemeral

 

 

panties dry in the tree from across the field a guitar out of tune

 

 

twilight the children shout the names of their dogs freeway and tequila

 

 

we both wind up in the fruit aisle one of the lights above blinks out

 

 

opacity where the green fronds overlap each other

 

 

a passing train the passengers’ faces still and dimly lit

 

 

i’m sorry i just needed to look at something yellow

 

 

half the billboard flaps in the wind in the dust splotches of rain

 

 

the plum blooms too early never far apart two crows

 

 

a hurried good-by the chain link fence in both our mouths

 

 

icy mist from a hole in the wall a bundle of wires

 

 

the shortest day of the year i wash an apple in warm water

 

 

aren’t all prophesies self-fulfilling sugar written in spanish

 

 

one buttoned one not our shirts hang from the knobs on the door

 

 

stuck to the window screen furry white seeds their minute shadows

 

 

still in the clefts of the waxy green leaves a bit of snow

 

 

no continuous skyline the relentless efficacy of breasts

 

 

steam drifting from a manhole a crow picks at ragged plastic

 

 

hard to see them falling from the ceiling tiny spiders she’s not home

 

 

will this be one of the days i remember and grass

 

 

the bus shelter when the rain comes someone else’s flies

 

 

after we’ve met my wife introduces us

 

 

an old latex glove nearly covered by bruised magnolia petals

 

 

the red stone isn’t really a stone the river would kill you

 

 

rippling on the bright pavement the shadows of triangular flags

 

 

i dropped that on your shoe because i couldn’t taste the cherries

 

 

where the curve in the metal peaks a taut black cord its slight motion

 

 

the exotics bloom first your callused hands nowhere beneath the sheets

 

 

no i didn’t say i thought he was nice i said i thought he was smart

 

 

a break in the clouds a few stars brighter than the others

 

 

full moon a white shirt hangs from a line between buildings

 

 

when will this secret life happen like spilling cans our conversation

 

 

on the edge of the paper an ant the smell of rain without the rain

 

 

her body warmer from the fever i pull a hair from my mouth

 

 

blown in from the patio a couple of spent wooden matches

 

 

new year’s day i find a sliver of soap on the rim of the tub

 

 

she makes her point the wet tires passing outside reach us

 

 

bee sting the silent archipelago envelopes

 

 

five crows meet on the roof next door we don’t know you’re pregnant

 

 

snagged on the rock the water going out with the tide

 

 

pushed away from the bark by the moss a flake of lichen

 

 

some strange taste to your finger what happens to the crickets

 

 

nectar infiltrated even garbage is advertising

 

 

through a gap in the seat of the broken bus bench a weed has grown

 

 

twisting in a swing she talks on the phone about her butt

 

 

the lamp still creaking from the tremor a thin persistent rain

 

 

where the hair stopped growing he said embedded with iconography

 

 

in the car shadows on the late afternoon wall our bodies mingle

 

 

while the receipt prints she fingers a button on her sweater

 

 

left on the edges of the cracks blue dye a robin kicks up the wet earth

 

 

dawn monday a wind from the bay stirs the heavy magnolias

 

 

things accrue to places like antibodies you can smell yourself

 

 

the arctic has melted i flush a plum seed down the toilet

 

 

between pots overgrown with dead grasses a spider rejoins its strands

 

 

her strap keeps slipping somewhere tar boils in the october air

 

 

the humid smell of rain turns into morning heat and coughing

 

 

actually the sky isn’t gray what would i say to you anyway

 

 

cool breeze flitting among stains the ants cast shadows

 

 

her hand covers my ear the sound blood makes

 

 

birds augur the dusk under the freeway giraffes painted on pylons

 

 

in the dim light the lines on the map fade away

 

 

today just a window into others she must still be in high school

 

 

our monkey aberration everything the blue of black except the foam

 

 

it hovers then flies back at me what i spit out

 

 

above the mist the waxing moon somewhere a tv’s turned off

 

 

newspaper machines empty of newspapers the parking lot submerged

 

 

the house darkens into the rain i hold her approximation

 

 

an apple shriveled on the sill the hummingbird darts through wet leaves

 

 

the translucency of surfaces better than gentle be exact

 

 

with the other rubberbands a yellow rubberband

 

 

a green chair without its seat tracked in tiny wet leaves

 

 

a balloon lies uninflated in the gutter nikki is the bomb

 

 

my cold foot steps on her bra still warm

 

 

fires in august darting through the grasses a dragonfly

 

 

if i’d known that was going to surprise you i would’ve done it sooner

 

 

later there’s this an incandescent light ceaseless rain

 

 

mercurial is putting it nicely the tops of the trees sway

 

 

a turn in the sky i like how you write the word your without an r

 

 

mirrored in the closing elevator doors a forgotten red ball

 

 

imagining her with someone else behind the blinds the moon

 

 

thick hailstones in april i keep swallowing my tail

 

 

under the white feather resting on the cracked lake floor beads of water

 

 

the martian chronicles read over the phone unsteady hand jobs

 

 

visible only in the shaft of light a circling fly her crumpled clothes

 

 

where the photographs hung on the wall nails a hook some string

 

 

day of the dead thousands of gnats leave the shade and return

 

 

bulletproof crow freeway two thin sticks still tied to the base

 

 

leafless vines entwined in the unraveling barbed wire

 

 

was that you all i saw was glare coming from the glass

 

 

convenience store parking lot two girls share a cigarette in a car

 

 

twelve flights up hearing the building sway in the twilight

 

 

the grass drips into the hydrangea air my loose ardency

 

 

knowing from its weight what the letter says

 

 

you almost put your hand on my waist when you introduce us

 

 

turning pink in the pool of rain a sock spotted with blood

 

 

the full moon low a dead tree all its seed cones

 

 

the crows fly into the rain i’m taller than you

 

 

in the center of the round table a staple bent open

 

 

washed over the edge of the bowl an ant holding a yellow fleck

 

 

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

 

 

the hot asphalt roof small white petals blow in circles

 

 

discussing terrorism another glimpse of your underarm hair

 

 

in the brief flash of the train’s light on the tunnel wall the word abhor

 

 

clinging to the shaded undersides of the apples drops of water

 

 

a dry sunset the flies won’t stay off of my skin

 

 

almost cold rain on the median weeds and a three of spades

 

 

obscure texts the clean water makes me sick

 

 

they turn off the lights here in the room all along the full moon

 

 

marbled blue on the round inside of her arm and then the eating

 

 

in the shade of the bridge the stones glitter in the creek

 

 

the silence of sunday unraveling in fingers of cricket speech

 

 

night has no flavor i think of your breath in another city

 

 

thick snow falls on the almond petals an unseen crow

 

 

balled up in the shower her wet dress the soughing darkness

 

 

the faint shadows on the paper made by creases in the paper

 

 

totality is absent late at night they paint white lines on the road

 

 

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

 

 

yellowed in the mirror what others see a creaking fan

 

 

a moth thumping the lamp shade i taste myself on her tongue

 

 

the window well some rain that leaked in sloshes back and forth

 

 

white skin where the strap rested dishes shift in the sink

 

 

i swallowed the pomegranate seed you can’t touch me now

 

 

the drip down the back of her thigh a mourning dove calls

 

 

damp tub blue in the dusk weighed down by blood a mosquito

 

 

trying to avoid you i run into you even more

 

 

indian summer no indians just still heat traffic

 

 

alone she makes the noises of a cat in the drain some petals

 

 

raindrops drip around fingerprints on the glass a rough tear in the seat

 

 

lyric intervention painted over all day i dream about sex

 

 

silver in the dusk eucalyptus leaves the sidewalk narrows

 

 

on the pencil a late december ladybug the buzzer goes off

 

 

used baudrillard her scent lingers in the philosophy section

 

 

underneath the minutes traces of the mist yellow the air

 

 

in the headlights a few new slats of fence your mole occluded

 

 

pine cones on the sere littered grass the white gulls bob

 

 

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

 

 

clapping my hands i kill a mosquito find it was a moth

 

 

the newest leaves red like skin numbers and mummery

 

 

under her sock another sock needles dripping rain

 

 

a slightly swaying chain dandelion seeds float by

 

 

warm october night on the cracked plate that’s drying a fly

 

 

so many i don’t see them at first smelt in the silt and algae

 

 

she reads the paper as if protecting the rest of us from it

 

 

unforeseen green winter your stolen moments someone has them

 

 

the sun shifts to the rest of the house a petal blows across the rug

 

 

perfume in the stairwell a drop of rain on the spider’s back

 

 

between the cars of the train her body turns from yellow to blue

 

 

the hollow of a tree beer bottles their labels worn away

 

 

will the plague end this winter five times in the direction of the moon

 

 

a heron sifts through the dark stuff we sleep in different rooms

 

 

pulling spinach leaves from their stems i think about the drug

 

 

fly always finds me in a room of people your archaeopteryx

 

 

cleanly broken half a stone tufts of white in the hot sky

 

 

swinging boom can crush a girl in mirrored glasses passes on a bike

 

 

all the color has settled to the bottom of the bowl

 

 

the dove’s nest without the dove a fan left on all night

 

 

in the dream i was danäe waiting for a drip from the ceiling

 

 

clusters of lichen on the branches chimes stir but make no sound

 

 

across the aisle her shoes move furtively against each other

 

 

dusk deepens three forks on the table facing different directions

 

 

in the glass of the fish tank a bit of the leafless tree

 

 

a bead bounces on the linoleum she said it wouldn’t hurt

 

 

abruptness of seed taking orders from the smaller machines

 

 

midnight at the point in your letter i keep seeing the word exfoliate

 

 

the aqueduct slick with moss a crushed trash can on its side

 

 

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

 

 

i fill my head with crows to avoid the sound of your name

 

 

it keeps peeling itself off into a moth the bare bulb in the night

 

 

these clouds impostors the grip of her hand firmer than mine

 

 

the lake obscured by fog downstairs they’re fighting

 

 

doing nothing about it i watch silverfish crawls on your stockings

 

 

seemed like it cracked the windshield a sudden yellow leaf

 

 

we step on things we can’t see and don’t you ever get any sun

 

 

one sock still on she’s darker than i thought

 

 

a condom we didn’t use mosquitoes keep to the shadows

 

 

days now grow smaller the air smells of ignition

 

 

not the words she whispers just their lilt and wetness

 

 

beneath the warm drifting surface cool sand the click of stones

 

 

stuck in the synthetic nipple a blue christmas light

 

 

not much to say about the rain there’s a helicopter

 

 

she changes her bathing suit again the flies start biting

 

 

tell me a story but not a very good one so i’ll feel better

 

 

moon full in the mist a bag of bottles settles

 

 

right now is optimal because of its seeming verisimilitude

 

 

under the sheets my feet find last night’s socks

 

 

a blue door tied down to the top of a car the stink of cut grass

 

 

milt of friction the ring where the ring keeps the light from her skin

 

 

through the floor the muffled radio sells something

 

 

the next day i remember buzz aldrin the pool closed for repairs

 

 

collecting rain a piece of wasp’s nest on the asphalt

 

 

pockets of heat under the dark trees a porch light goes out

 

 

her hand covered in orange pulp she slips into her accent

 

 

objects in mirror are closer than they appear clouds

 

 

after plucking hairs from my ear the tea tastes different

 

 

in the brown grasses a broken bowl drawn to something flies

 

 

embedded in wet sand three red berries on a twig

 

 

ascribe an eros to the flurry of stockings the cold scald of air

 

 

over her freckled shoulder news about why insect bites itch

 

 

rain dripping from a light bulb a car backfires

 

 

if i said every word i know i’d say your name twice

 

 

the breakfast special missing a few letters not quite spring

 

 

night brings all its silences to bear the alkaline dryness of lips

 

 

lawnmowers outside i make the rumpled half of the bed

 

 

the shadows on the leaves are the shadows of other leaves

 

 

the starlings return her voice through a cold phone

 

 

fallen elm leaves the plastic bag remains

 

 

a steep flight of stairs weeds yellow and crumble in the cracks

 

 

slow becomes owls wind a mystery with zippers

 

 

heat i kiss the innertube smell on her chiseled hand

 

 

rain disturbed pools on the roof below a floodlight keeps coming on

 

 

flies mating in circles a plane leaves a white line in the sky

 

 

weeds as tall as roses what i threw out the window when we fought

 

 

lunacy a lost poem about an acetylene torch

 

 

trailing from the dumpster into the shadows a spool of kite string

 

 

wood smoke in the warm afternoon a deaf woman talks to herself

 

 

she pulls her collar over the mole below her necklace rain in june

 

 

left in a wine glass a purple crayon broken and peeled open

 

 

i can’t tell you about the moth the air with less air is called haze

 

 

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

 

 

pushing my fingers into the warm soil in a car a woman laughs

 

 

the shadow of the filament wavers then settles on the blank page

 

 

a misprint in her body language tear open the air to black seeds

 

 

full moon entangled on a reed by the creek a shiny ribbon

 

 

as if they belonged to someone else i put on my clothes

 

 

a bent playing card in a clay pot the sound of ants in the grass

 

 

an airtight bag of crickets the pleats in her grey skirt

 

 

an old injury i lick your thigh because it tastes of soot

 

 

waiting for the timer to go off i let the moth walk on my arm

 

 

you only wear those when you go out the ceiling is leaking

 

 

the sock swallows itself darkly a small shard of violence

 

 

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

 

 

in the shower i make the water hotter and notice the fly

 

 

voices from the grade school the sink filled with shifting leaf shadows

 

 

small creases in your information filled with anxious juices

 

 

the corners of the window a slight green on the piano one note

 

 

the dark shape of a spider wrapping a moth it starts raining

 

 

between page twenty-two and twenty-three a loop of black hair

 

 

she whispers in another language the intermittent rumble of the elevator

 

 

fork tines not the actual sensation

 

 

the blue heron has come back arsenic in the tapwater

 

 

moon almost new we pass through the construction of unseen walls

 

 

a green shimmer on the wall the murmur of men’s voices

 

 

during our argument a hairy seed floats through the car

 

 

i have always been a spy in the softer parts a few mites appear

 

 

a little steam rises from the empty tea cup

 

 

frost melting at dawn a crow lands on the traffic signal

 

 

we exhaust the five hundred gimmicks eucalyptus leaves like metal

 

 

the mail box a novel in a condensation blurry plastic bag

 

 

beneath your shirt i find the small of your back the grey rain

 

 

an ant crawls around the stain that seeps into the napkin

 

 

a power outage small pieces of blinding cloud in the hot sky

 

 

trying not to eat a fig why didn’t i see you today

 

 

saxophone practice upstairs the machine fills with water

 

 

a purple evening in the window she folds her underwear

 

 

behind the moon there is another moon the egrets reluctant

 

 

winter again in my coat pocket a strand of her hair

 

 

after the picnic she wants to talk about the irs

 

 

a memory of our collective death your conduct disorder here

 

 

wind stirs the wind chimes on the porch somewhere there’s a fire

 

 

fast-food containers the weeds green from the warm rain

 

 

a spot on the table without varnish quietly the heave of trees

 

 

for a moment under the sink i smell roses why did you do that

 

 

murder of an august the planes spray the fields with who knows what

 

 

the moon wanes in the day sky your smallest clothes on the line

 

 

crushed by a tire the yellow pencil fans out from its metal end

 

 

the first woman i see smiles at me and ruins the rest of the day

 

 

wan light of the bathroom a spider lowers to the blue tile

 

 

leaving the shadow of downtown what’s left of the pigeon’s foot

 

 

collecting at the tips of the budding alder branch drops of rain

 

 

frictionless dusk the fruit that leaks through and burns

 

 

where they put out the fire green moss glows in the mist

 

 

the vents are being replaced i touch your drink by mistake

 

 

covered with frost a shopping cart on its side under the streetlight

 

 

moon a tear made in the sky with a fingernail don’t answer the door

 

 

soon the magnolias will bloom a ball of paper on the path

 

 

the umbrellas cast no shadows on the upended bike a wheel turns

 

 

they belong inside the body the clouds a nail rusting in a pool

 

 

you pee so quietly a few birds swelling in the rain

 

 

at her estate sale i expose a roll of film from 1929

 

 

soaking in a jar for three days the beans are pink and ready to split

 

 

dusk the winter moon blades of grass sprout from a nest

 

 

feeling a bee three coins in my hand flash with the sun

 

 

a product for every second of the day that man smells of urine

 

 

in the lit window across the way her hands take off her socks

 

 

an occasional plunk of stones the breeze turns the river green

 

 

too windy for a hat sheets of newspaper slap the chain link fence

 

 

the teeth of an atrocity speaking backwards on the phone

 

 

the brief warm spell over thumping the outside of the pane flies

 

 

the thought of your slip-ons slapping against your heels my mouth grows wet

 

 

a dusk rain mosquitoes drift up through the hole in the garage

 

 

cloud shadows on the ceiling spring will bury me

 

 

between two houses a crane rises the pigeons pick at chicken bones

 

 

after the shower a ring of sand left in her ear

 

 

the trickle in the gutter a shard of glass reflects the sun

 

 

all the slurring and none of the puncture no i said sects

 

 

two moths hover above the dripping faucet all this smog

 

 

there is an eye tuned to the scrape of a chair there is an ambulance

 

 

a sky full of plum flesh tilting my head to the egret

 

 

just the tag of her panties sticking out from her crumpled blue jeans

 

 

warm wind a plastic bag rustles on a parking meter

 

 

broken in three places the feather of an unknown bird

 

 

the blackberry i picked for you is full of ants at last it grows dark

 

 

the full moon coats the dark lake boarding an empty bus

 

 

a sweat from questionable meat this time the monster saves the day

 

 

some blurry some sharp weed shadows on the shimmering pavement

 

 

april rain the robin’s foot closes a few times then stops

 

 

a girl i went to high school with her mouth on a movie poster

 

 

a tea leaf blocks the drain like something other than music

 

 

covered in graffiti the train passes quickly through town

 

 

behind the slightly opaque glass a bowl of oranges

 

 

the oak creaks in the evening heat a glinting penny

 

 

codeine withdrawal there’s a full moon and she won’t talk to me

 

 

at the flower stand two tall men kiss hastily

 

 

the last light turned off a scent of pine in the room

 

 

later you realize it was actually a piece of your own body

 

 

moss around the edge of the drain the radio plays static

 

 

her hands turn purple in the rain an empty bus passes

 

 

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

 

 

dido translucent like rice an accumulation of minor cruelties

 

 

while we were talking the chinese magnolia opened

 

 

that new smell in the room it must be you

 

 

a crow then another crow passes faint voices in another yard

 

 

throwing stones at dandelions that wasn’t one machine it was two

 

 

her ringed finger twitching she rouses briefly and says dragonfly

 

 

myrtle leaves stained the pavement there’s that hole in my sock

 

 

a new moon the radio barely audible late at night

 

 

an act of transcription closes up the flower travel a violence

 

 

flecks where the paint is gone on the glass her fingerprint

 

 

it’s been ten years we start calling each other by name

 

 

end of summer rain the dime in the lint trap still warm

 

 

blue hills grow dim in the icy haze the tractors on consignment

 

 

i get on top of you they start playing a commercial

 

 

the split wet half of a pine cone a blade of grass emerges

 

 

she’s kicked me out at the fountain they discuss regional dialects

 

 

its stillness disconcerting a hummingbird at the end of a branch

 

 

remembering something from next week all my fingers but one cold

 

 

the smell of garbage cans she asks me to keep her ring anyway

 

 

a place on your body neither of us know of air and thistle

 

 

her burn in the sunlight actually those aren’t clouds that’s a dragon

 

 

in a pile of leaves a white dish rag the mist becomes rain

 

 

low in the fog the moon past full her boots ring on the stairs

 

 

things i saw on the way to your ablution marked down thirty percent

 

 

collecting in large beads on the curling leaf a drizzle

 

 

on a seat at the bus station torn panties some old pills

 

 

past midnight a fly settles on the last page of the book

 

 

cold spring rain snail in its beak the crow blinks

 

 

on the saucer chips of blue glass embedded in wax

 

 

i open the oven to the smell of sweet potatoes your panties

 

 

five matches lit blown out no word from the butterfly garden

 

 

buffeted in circles a broken umbrella all the houses dark

 

 

night encircled by pine trees the slender moon sets in the fog

 

 

the fall and round the sloping green your only friend is this thought

 

 

rain the shaft in the center of the building smells like an animal

 

 

dawn pollen still clings to the hairs on the back of her neck

 

 

a nest from last year date pits litter the broken glass

 

 

morning thick and humid they forgot to turn off the streetlights

 

 

where i sometimes kiss her spider bites light wavers on the ceiling

 

 

the crow still at the side of the road long shadows of july’s weeds

 

 

indehiscence or abrogation these clouds a splintered language

 

 

on the bus rocking against the blind woman’s shoe an apple

 

 

a space left by the brick yellow roots grow pale in the rain

 

 

moon is slow the acid environment of the vagina

 

 

jays scatter the freshly cut grass into clumps you know you’re lying

 

 

prepare to be blown away the morning forgives me

 

 

at the seam a few loose threads a bright leaf drifts down

 

 

diving into the shudder of darkness maybe this time

 

 

disrupted where the pavement’s still we the shadows of girders

 

 

for just a moment my sense of smell returns the bewildered elms

 

 

green at the close of winter a broken crate in the empty train car

 

 

apparently she decided against underwear the figs gone ba

 

 

after the mri i decide i need a new toothbrush

 

 

rain pelts the window anchored to the ceiling swaying cobwebs

 

 

before stepping over them she crushes the bread crumbs with her shoe

 

 

where the lines end and the absence begins an architecture or so

 

 

the brown dusk held by algae blooms an egret’s feather

 

 

another zip code the taut play of muscle between your shoulder blades

 

 

i wasn’t sure if he said cake or hate the dark of the moon

 

 

on the dull wooden floor a red sock wrapped around itself

 

 

the tips of my fingers smell burnt like her soap the one you hate

 

 

if this were an espionage film we’d all be dead

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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