He phones from across the country after lying in the grass with another.
Bees may not be bought. Our children may never know apples.
It is music opening and closing, Italia mia, on Bleecker, ciao, Antonio.
may your harvest fit in a sack may none of your apples be sweet
After the child died they mourned oddly. She wanted another.
Wrists will twist or twirl while the hand writes the wriest writs—lamps-lit.
Song where a house becomes a dandelion in a puff of savage wind.
Books are territory of the hands, hands that shook my spine.
Too bad there is no oil between her legs that 4-year-old Muslim girl.
I’m the one with the most crumbs, little bits of salad or fudge.
Be glad the numbness in your legs isn’t reading on your face.
I saw Baryshnikov twice. Heard Pavarotti, Marsalis, and Ma.
Our father turned to me and said, Why does he sound like a girl.
I fell asleep wondering to whom the tree might have been writing.
They peer into their mirrors to see whatever is bearing down.
When I see buffaloes run I think of love—how it is held.
We ate and then made love, the windows open to deafening twilight.
No one tells you what it sounds like out in the streets when bullets clang.
The purpose of all rules of piety is to extend revelation into ordinary life.
For years, all we showed her for her pains were two deaf ears.
Tear-streaked mascara, mascara-stained cheeks: a cataract of woe.
Complicity can crease the tongue back on itself like an origami dog.
I’m the shrunken dead like them, here, greening the sky’s bluer potion.
Now the mulch has come between us seven turns, I’ve grown dramatic.
On the anniversary of your death, a memory sharpens, as if illuminated.
I was satisfied with haiku until I met you, jar of octopus, cuckoo’s cry.
I am tamping down the earth with the flat side of a blade I am burying you
I wanted to forget my parents’ slow dying together in Ohio.
Purple planets, dirt stars. Imagine the carom in the hall, how it sounded.
I have already begun the life-long work of hating my father.