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The night shower is a personal pan-blizzard, a folklore-free zone.

The angel lay in his body effervescent as a flake of alabaster.

If life is an open vein, what’s brave about a sleeve-heart, sweetheart?

What’s left is a thumbhouse, an inch of gristle inside skin walls.

God was surrounding the chair, leaves flourishing from a sickly tree.

A simple line of raging wet nearby, how as a kid I pictured the Nile.

I feel them slice me open and tug, then I smell my own innards burning.

In the many pages of the book of love this is only one story.

Our brains interpolate from surrounding images, fooling us.

Two surgeons vaulted over a counter to hold open my incisions.

It is the one day that is purely American. Yes, a day of celebration.

I will tell you about the sick. They are ruthless, they are like Attila.

I will tell you about the sick. They are ruthless, they are like Attila.

When the light failed she listed all the places he might find her.

All I could focus on was if he was going to ask me to date him.

Men came over carrying lanterns and pulled away the chunks of ice.

The sense all along has been that there’s some madness in her.

I don’t know you, I only think of you to ignore how unhappy I am.

We could use our arms to squeeze or hold or load not a gun, not a gun.

She takes her hand to my scalp: eyes close as if tasting lemon cake.

Turns out my body’s a dollar sweet potato, her screen said.

We could have everything and still be hurt.

With cane in hand I felt a twinge of superiority to the crutch people.

The kissed fingerpad touched wet with wine orbiting.

No one plans a trip to the emergency room. No one succeeds.

He’d always wanted to kiss her thigh dimples but never dared.

Cerberuses ran in packs, terrorizing drunks who fell in the snow.

The door opened, and Dan stormed in, shouting, “Motherfuckers!”

All my life I wondered what it is to vanish like a ring of smoke.

If only to hold on by opening lord give me this one eighth day