Waiting for a cure, waiting for the closeout sale, the black sail.
When she sleeps, Shakespeare writes one more sonnet we’ll never read.
Many times I’ve stood at the lip of this river and wanted to crawl in.
For one hundred years I followed old people to learn what I was in for.
I let the baby mouse live because I cannot kill what has ears.
In the morning light, I could hear Bashō hard at work.
The appendix on political correctness explains why none of that is funny.
You are afraid pain itself might develop a way to communicate.
We have harvested nothing more than the stench of middle age.
For sixty or maybe seventy years this sidewalk has been lying here.
In every pair, one shoe smells of exodus, the other of the body’s sweat.
One door teaches to read for meaning and pleasure. Another shuts.
I want to cut loose from her each wistful sigh I hear escape her lips.
It’s another thing to have the beloved hesitate, silent, on the porch.
she was sixteen, and swimming. she was seventy-one, and soft.
The highway hot with possibility, a new herd expected every five miles.
I tell him: junkies are the only people worth talking to about love.
Bone unspools its musculature to the crush of atmosphere.
We need a silvery stream that banks as smoothly as a plane’s wing.
do you asks pretty sue know what I love what pretty please tell us
When push comes to shove, I can get downright Aeolian on you, son.
The first time we love, how tight we hang on to keep from drowning.
Tears sometimes come in a bottle. Open and apply several times daily.
The five notes, slowly, over & over, and with some light intent.
We walk in light so steep I can see each single stitch of your sweater.
I only feel that here, only here, in this one place, a small rise.
He doesn’t notice the cop car rolling slow-motion into the station.
This must be what it’s like to be seen by God as we inch toward the infinite.
When I dream of lovers, I rarely see faces. It’s better if we never touch.
Our bed a garden of the littlest sighs of our waking. Our room, abstract.