after your husband died

, that late summer, all the enormous air clogged
in your mouth like words made before language

slowly the white bed grew and grew and grew
a huge white thing that wanted to swallow you up

the light hurt your eyes; you cried with them closed,
your hipbones pressed against my patient palms

--

i
green blades slicked by the sun at one and a crow dancing on a wire

ii
spine lined with knuckles of stone, he hides his face in a bale of hay and laughsiii ( Read more... )

no really it is turning out to be an interesting winter ( Read more... )

?

what the fuck
is potluck?

trag oida

a big black goat
fatted up for the pot

tethered to a pole
by the side of the street

it stood in a puddle
of little black pellets

its warm black snout
and its warm goaty smell

and its glassy eyes
stared up at me passing

in them i saw
the slicing white steel

and the steaming soup
in the big black pot

re: kashmir

singh & aziz met
and agreed to disagree
but how is that news?

good pickingsoh what to do with a boogery boo ( Read more... )

_____simple thingsi want to walk ( Read more... )

a tear

fell from your eye
like a ripe clear fruit
from a glass tree

onto the still heather
of the collar
of my purple shirt

where it died
untouched, untasted
and all that was left

was a pinch of salt
and ...perhaps ...
the tiniest seed

of hope.

#1 my favourite chair

is made of plastic.
it was bought
at a discount sale.

a sudden weight
cracked the top
of its spine.

it used to be
a deep puce,
but now
it's salmon pink.

the sun lightens it
and darkens my face
as i sit for hours
outside,

my back against
its blue cushion
my arms
on its arms.

--

#2 bourgeoise woesi have run ( Read more... )