Afternoon rain-
waiting for the train
to slink its headlight down the line.
My kid has a thing for switching
tracks so while we wait, I'll list these facts:
sycamore branches stripped by wind, clawing black
Against December's steely shroud. Wet
with rot and umber-green, the station steps
Are far from sound. We both of us could
Go go crashing down onto the tracks
At any time. Yet we wait like idiots in
love with something bright to come
As it is supposed to come, each day,
At this hour.
the sinking orb
a weblog of poems in process
Monday, January 30, 2017
Wednesday, December 28, 2016
year end
Tongues of ice drip
along the wire
the neighbor walks
the dog beneath
the dog beneath
fallen water
unnoticed on her overcoat
unnoticed on her overcoat
A car idling
delicious poison
hinges to frost
a spectral door
creeks open in the sky
Thursday, December 15, 2016
The Way Back
The original wound is the loudest
beneath the skin. Fester, screech, fester screech.
The bound and latched wade through
swamp waters mineral as blood
drops into the muck, seals itself
as iron. Years, years later
the mud is thick and green and
riddled with forgotten star-matter.
I can feel the wound opening
now. Dark at 4:30 PM, the city
creaks and roars. A small Guatemalan
woman pushes a laundry cart down
Elizabeth Street. She has a mango
in her sweatshirt pocket. Her child
has been asleep in a dark room since
noon, alone in her constellation of dreams.
The woman wheels the cart forward,
presses the round fruit with her fingers
to feel the fibers and juice beneath the skin.
Much later, from her window, she will watch
the traffic snarl, crawl, snarl, crawl.
Taillights pooling like blood in a corroded vessel.
beneath the skin. Fester, screech, fester screech.
The bound and latched wade through
swamp waters mineral as blood
drops into the muck, seals itself
as iron. Years, years later
the mud is thick and green and
riddled with forgotten star-matter.
I can feel the wound opening
now. Dark at 4:30 PM, the city
creaks and roars. A small Guatemalan
woman pushes a laundry cart down
Elizabeth Street. She has a mango
in her sweatshirt pocket. Her child
has been asleep in a dark room since
noon, alone in her constellation of dreams.
The woman wheels the cart forward,
presses the round fruit with her fingers
to feel the fibers and juice beneath the skin.
Much later, from her window, she will watch
the traffic snarl, crawl, snarl, crawl.
Taillights pooling like blood in a corroded vessel.
Monday, December 12, 2016
Saturday, August 20, 2011
The Damaged Child
The hole in your head was not intended
Though I saw it coming like a Wyoming afternoon
ravishing the valley with a cumulus bruise.
Where should I have been looking?
The swings were still, not creaking.
The slide yet wet with morning pus.
You are my son.
I saw that clearly for the first time today.
Your wound unfurling as a dahlia
explodes at dawn,
as the cut you made in me expands
even now, even as you sleep
against my collarbone.
My wound that lingers
these years later
in the lightning-dry
valley of my gut.
I am in love with you.
Though I saw it coming like a Wyoming afternoon
ravishing the valley with a cumulus bruise.
Where should I have been looking?
The swings were still, not creaking.
The slide yet wet with morning pus.
You are my son.
I saw that clearly for the first time today.
Your wound unfurling as a dahlia
explodes at dawn,
as the cut you made in me expands
even now, even as you sleep
against my collarbone.
My wound that lingers
these years later
in the lightning-dry
valley of my gut.
I am in love with you.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Ornamental Pear
there is the particular palette of April's end
pear-green unfurling slow and now
wound of hyacinth patched here
and there pubic grasses coaxed
as branches, heavy umbilical blush
endure these days, then gone,
a snow of vessels burst
pear-green unfurling slow and now
wound of hyacinth patched here
and there pubic grasses coaxed
as branches, heavy umbilical blush
endure these days, then gone,
a snow of vessels burst
Friday, February 4, 2011
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