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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.

I love it—watching gray light bleed out over the makeshift bed on the floor.

My lust works like the tides pulling in reverse, controlled by a simple ballast.

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.

The first skeleton drawn from the earth, they called beautiful.

You linger in the dimming aftermath, grayer and fainter than a breath.

All the bears in the zoo look pathetic. Their eyes glazed, bodies lethargic.

Beyond her ampleness, he stands a small man vanquished.

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.

The coverage of the state funeral, black horse bearing an empty saddle.

My “lonelymaking.” Also known as my horrible secret, continent-wide.