|Make a Smilebox scrapbook|
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
like a precipice and ridge
not your complicated replication
the tendency of fluid to move to the area of least pressure
so smooth in his hand. questions about the sky
bigger than the universe and arms
rise beyond the paper
you could have held that single, multiplying cell in your hand
who knew it could be so minute?
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
but no, it doesn't have sides or a bottom
more like wing than spleen
the tumor is the presence, not the absence
looking like an eyeball and focusing
and all if its exchanges
when you imagine grapes
where do the puddles go? wash
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
between winter and fall
you came and went.
your coming was never marked
by an arrival or a rush of heat.
it was the quietest stay.
your departure was marked
by a floating, swirling beam of loss.
not like losing but like becoming less
than nothing for a time. like nothing
could cover it. soak it up.
how hard we try to fill in these spaces.
caulk the leaking crevices. maybe there will be
another who comes. maybe with limbs,
a body, a mind who can think of me. Another you.
Another you who might be here already.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Such explosions, steam. Rising in the dome.
Turning the wheels.
For you, everything is linked, coupled,
sequenced in terms of who
carries whom. You wake up already attached
to the elements of significance:
Who is the engine? What is being carried
into this separate coincidence
we call "freight"? Who is, after all,
on the train?
Still, I'm astonished to see the dexterity
with which you connect everything. Paper clips;
silverware; books, once a pile, now lay end to end,
from one side of the house to another.
Your tracks take shape and look
both like circles and tangents at the same time.
Each engine has its place, its own power source,
and its own cars to carry.
We've read countless books about trains,
some are about arriving, some are just about
getting on. Destination and arrival. You often return
to the story of our own journey on a train, the orange engine
straining up the mountain and through heavy rocks,
tunnels, emerging into light. You slept soundly
on my lap as we descended, like a river,
into the valley. Your wheels, for once, at rest.
Friday, January 25, 2008
It wasn’t like
half lemon zest.
sure to cover
his left foot
In this light
it’s difficult to
know what is
and what is
like your steadfast
eyes, how well-
worn your image
is in my own
(She reminds me
It’s not poetic
to always go home
with the same guy.
But you alone
are a mixture,
of balsam and
trajectory.) You say
you are not
I find you
would we maintain
along. In a quiet
fall pale and
But at the end
of each critical
flash, you return.
but standing on his
left toe. The poem
collapses. Your face
looking away. There
is no more
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Unusual, her fingers twirled anxious photographs. Clearly of children. What of centuries of goddesses trying to be women? Are their bodies hardened in birth; how do they carry and bear? Aware of shrapnel. Exploded torso. Can a bone explode and become another body? World or wars. Glue or anovulatory spike? It has nothing to do with the moon.