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Animalsexpand_moreMy soul is simple; it doesn’t think. Something strange paces there now.
Wet air. Big windsound in the leaves—a kind of prayer, maybe.
On a morning in November words appeared at the end of my pen.
From a pyre on the burning ghat a corpse slowly sits up in the flames.
My lust works like the tides pulling in reverse, controlled by a simple ballast.
I love it—watching gray light bleed out over the makeshift bed on the floor.
David Lee
Men are so delicate, must be given many portals. I try to be game.
A goddess was offended; her altar required my virgin blood.
I saw a bat in a dream and then later that week I saw a real bat.
The urge to be a tiny bird upon a tiny limb, maybe a bridled titmouse.
My own hunger was for a reduction in the vast space between people.
My own hunger was for a reduction in the vast space between people.
My mother’s house was packed, painted, put up for sale—sold.
Bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, and fill all fruit with ripeness.
Help me, please help me, is the beggar’s refrain on the F train today.
I love scientists. They’re trying their hardest. And they just want love.
I should call my loves while I can to listen to the grackles croak.
Again, nature has written a good script. The skunk saga will continue.
His beauty comes from his power. I am as wary as I am drawn to it.
A psychologist told me we can train our dreams. I practice each night.
The first murder had been a half dozen years ago in a warmer city.
He was alongside without preamble. Elephants are not stealthy by nature.
Who needs driftwood when I can bury myself in your loamy soil.
Our brains interpolate from surrounding images, fooling us.
The coverage of the state funeral, black horse bearing an empty saddle.
My “lonelymaking.” Also known as my horrible secret, continent-wide.
I never felt heart stop or skin burn, just the first split second of sound.
