I’m afraid to say anything or nothing, I’m white & unalterably broken.
The dead cowards my parents on a tear through the goddamn fields.
By the time I looked over my shoulder, the sun had already fallen.
The woman one row in front of me was an epic series of curves.
My son trims a curtain of lashes, immures them into a stray year.
The almanac tells them when the moon passes into ghost weather.
He sits hiked up, naked to the waist, like a stone in the bedclothes.
I shoved them one by one, easy as pie yet with care, just shy of mercy.
History howls for direction so I remind him how the hero was lost.
Tongue, eye, nose—which has the shortest route to the brain, heart?
It’s so delicate, the light. And there’s so little of it. The dark is huge.
You will be a broke blues man with only some story of how you were.
I wanted to ride this day down into night, to smooth the unreadable page.
Life, then, was song and purple font, imagining in words a future.
We caress the rough. Sensuous, delectable, and yet sorrowful.
The hawk moves out of the way to let a little hot package of breath rise up.
I thought my body was mine until it a map anyone could use.
Have two children to keep around the house in case one goes missing.
Here’s where memory, where waves of light washed over him.
Streetlights throw the blinds against the ceiling. It’s 7:00 p.m.
Royal baby George is tucked in the crook of his mother’s elbow.
Is she dreaming of the rivers soft with codling in her hometown?
All over the planet people try to end pain: striptease, bee stings.
A boy watching another boy lucky gets an ache. That is a small motor.
I have, in the long solitude of my body, asked for something else.
However hard you try to make amends, they will still condemn you.
We are going south where I know that my father is going to die.
To articulate sweet sounds together is to work harder than all these.
I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams.
I’ll see you on the sea, they say, but then they float past on a raft