Explore
Deathexpand_moreUnder Saint Peter’s Gate, I put good foot after bad, and derided, I chased.
“She showed me her tits,” said Jimmy. “Bullshit!” said Frank.
A real or imagined boundary, crossed. End of the line. Lined out.
His mooseness was implacable, the light behind him from the trees.
Oar blades, vast swirls of cirrus at dawn. The dead move within us.
All of this leaves me floating in seas of prehistory and indeterminacy.
He folds on himself like a sheet kicked off the foot of a bed.
One makes one’s peace with words in a poem and space in a dream.
It wasn’t the bees I thought to tell but wasps the evening you died.
Was that lipstick on Don’s cheek? This was too much for her to take.
She does not know within a decade she will unload a slug into her mouth.
The Poet Laureate reads three poems in his New Hampshire home.
A little music. An empty bottle of whiskey. It’s a little like cheating.
The men here don’t know where to place me, call me exotic grail.
When I’m reading him I feel myself come closer to you than usual.
A woman’s long bare legs stretched up at the edge of the graveyard.
The past is never done with. It begs to be fed, demands to be eaten.
Upon his supine monstrous shape there was a colossal inertia.
I played a game I called ocean, resisted my need for air.
No one asked that, changed as he was, he do more than survive.
If it were fiction, calling the place Newtown would be too much.
The dead man’s suit coat is a good fit through the shoulders.
A story about money, values, and materialism—in just six words.
Isn’t it nice to think tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes yet?
I keep waking up on the edge of the black lake. He’s on the other side.
The website said November was a good time for appreciating bark.
The rings of Saturn flash their nothing yellows, nothing blues beautiful.
Nothing was permanent, no friend I made, no math test I took.
Rise the Euphrates, my first novel, grew out of a feverish dream.
What does it take for a woman like you to decide to do something?
