Here are two cones side by side on a path that would otherwise flow
pink scar tissue
the backs of young men
whose legacies spawn
you and even her the one foreword
premising most things
through an impression you have of density
kind of belong to this wound
out of love motels and dead leaves the rune
ponying porn vendors
well a lot of men like him
closed their eyes
on boys and girls
burned to the ground.
I wait for you
in her sleep
lies in the south
overlooking the Tiber
full of other people's memories
carried in the body
Can you hold
nothing but dark
beauty, inland sea
and the ruined
peaks at a loss
I fell into
or took up
to live you again
Self portrait 2014
It's all those
poems under porches
friends out of orbit
(up a garden path
down by a river)
there, behind the ribs
whatever else is lurking
more poems waiting to be made.
So her aunty visits and takes off her shoes
they sit on the big brown couch
how is your heart?
a lot of running around, that's how it feels.
The day before last she could hear waves
silly because the coast is far off
and the visitors sitting around the island
in her mother's brand new kitchen
know about a dying boy
but they don't know about her.
It was bright behind the eyes
letting sounds waves roll
up and down her body
going somewhere north
out of the mouth of clouds.
of a country
a physical smothering
spring breakup of the ice.
A reserve of funds used for fighting a war.
Unsecured wireless connection.
A state of conflict. A state of love.
One child fathered illegitimately. Hero baby.
Rain clouds looming. A call made from a horse.
A program used to find phone numbers that connect to a modem
without seeking permission. A game played by children.
First I choose a spine that boasts DEATH in upper case
turn its torso, delight in graphic Spain
route canal, actual impression (the way to doom)
path to enlightenment and a lot of fluff that helps the author.
A balding blue anorak man
wets his lips next to me reading TV
for some reason the poetry in my head
is narrated by Obama
we hold the same accused
dead hair pages
nothing good nothing bad
journeys that collapse
cold words, unsaid highways.
I come home to find you're still there
between my hands and the kettle
is on with slanted rain outside
like every passage I couldn't recall
becomes crystal clear:
the hollow of your chest
echoes every word.