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Deathexpand_moreThe fish’s eye is mangled, tugged inward; blood leaks from its gills.
The citizens of Aunay believed Pierre Rivière batshit, dimwitted.
The church was clearly the work of a madman driven crazy by the wind.
The Renaissance mastered the illusion of depth on a flat plane.
In the seventies a skier’s mettle was measured by the length of his skis.
Lucy Liu, you show me I can come to fruition and yellow on my own terms.
The notebook’s cotton pages are spangled with axes and sickles.
It’s life that is hard: sleeping, eating, loving, and dying are easy.
Death is our common ancestor. It doesn’t care who we have dined with.
Let us stifle under mud and affirm it is fitting and delicious to lose everything.
We were both up there smoking weed and axle grease, blinded.
Under 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.
