30 July 2015

Today's list

impress the dust

record collections, lush
house plants, rings
on coasters--

dignified offices
of grief occupied
on the way

to the kitchen.  Forget
nothing, except
the cluttered table

and its gathering aspect.  It
lost the room
for what you wanted to be.

29 July 2015

Impossible Bottle

the shower drain
will be
my only means
of escape.

20 July 2015

The Empty River Museum

for Nova

She is smiling on the water.  She is on the water.  She will not forget the water.  The mouth will not forget.  She floats through chambers and chambers.  She is her name on the water. Some things don't change.  The rills try, the rills really do try.  How do you look exactly the same?  How?  How do you look the water?

That was for someone I don't remember.  I remember to find out how gum is made, but I don't remember the source.

I forget again.  Her.

I'm in the oxbow.

16 July 2015

The Waiting Place

We are parked
far from each other.

I can’t hear the sound
of his door opening.

But I see him get in,
prepare for the drive home.

Across this gray road,
through a dingy windshield,

With his back to me,
it is nothing much—

the way I can love him.
It doesn’t cost a thing.

12 June 2015

Paid time off

At the end are the great halls
where I go to wash
the footsteps that brace snapping 
legs.  Every day through metal

doors a jarring lack,
an unfamiliar return to pearled
floors and joints of laughter 
left to spoil.  In the smear

of a closet I hide my ashes
and ready the mop.
But the cleaning has already been done.
I'm just tumbling the bucket.

06 June 2015


rather opening—forgotten
coats, watches for solid

sopping mock ridded

perfect, foretell deadly
fence posts.  Behind—a scarecrow.

Loose views inexplicably

perforating the "Wh-"
asked trickily, "whistle."

Barded fingers less

their debts blessed
aver unwanted wants

turned down alley clacking

round desire.  Waists
swell, worlds behind

recounting from the inside—

veiled curling dries
on glib limbs.

02 June 2015

Memorial Day

I came to your past
while you were away.
There wasn't much
that was mine,

so I stole your dust
and let myself
out.  This is love
to you.  This is

my love to you.
Motes in the window,
from pockets
from China,

from pants from you
to me.  From motes
from paper from dust
and too much

that's not me,
or the past,
or you, from you,
my love.  To you.