January 20, 2015


when your eyelashes curl i forget
and then your hazel shoots straight, marble hard, stinging flashes
and pierced by this i forget again and this is understandable
and your hands are fine.

when your fingers slip slim and precise,
practiced, into spaces between night and dawn, places of hush or murmur, 
that golden ring spreads peached air upon
our now dewed, now heavy and i have no memory

and this is a day, again

January 19, 2015


that sky is icewater white as
            once your hair was above, pulled, pushed, dropping rain
your rain that seethed and balmed.
            i remember our bed
and i burned and froze at afternoon, at night
blankets back to that touch

i slice a new window open and
               efficient heaters blow back against wind's push, 
devious wind's tongues hissing mosaic skin rhythms and
               i am alone in bed. 
and again i freeze and burn at afternoon, at night
blankets back to this touch

January 1, 2014

given the situation, instructions follow

corrupt, and pruning wonder with disfiguring hands, this pinching.
paroxysms strangling tender cervixes, the
secluded byways of hope, however slim, and

here fertile things possess no promise.
this is a graceless, wide bed of rage.
and with smeared, lipstick-oiled eyes,

know: these kisses are bald blinking.
sheathes open closing, quickly over brown rounds of self pity,
sheathes open closing.  open closing over turned ground, at the turned cosmos

of a robin mid-flight.  this one, the one with clipped wings clipped speech. 
clipped years of gash gardens that, unflossed to your fang and dull-knifed, 
impractical hook, he would not visit.

so:  rest.  in nightshine and upon that spot bleached pillow,
seal the doors seal the windows, and against unchanging ahead,  and
despite fixed behind, fall asleep to invented canticles.  dream.

cold anniversaries

early december
and on and on,  wondering
is it still?

oh yes.  frosty lace, cloudy lingerie
melt and puddle.  bright light, whiteness
drifts, and eyes open beneath,
under the slick shine of the black 
grand piano, the strange

new carpet just as beige as the old
but not as soft
on my knees, my shins.

later my back bleeds.
spine scraping the plastic cream and eyes open,
above are tribal masks from pier one cultures
because it doesn't matter where, or what,
they ornament: like the instrument, the man

masks of seduction, grimace.  but
smile: at the artificial flowers you planted
upon that open grave of last years, decades

early december and on and on
and this is a cold anniversary,
this is an oh yes.