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Timeexpand_moreinsomniacs gesturing in a cave of neon light the narrative of their lives
Two surgeons vaulted over a counter to hold open my incisions.
He had looked on it a thousand times and it never failed to kill him.
My first true love was Underwood, my mother’s typewriter.
Wang Wei
Turns out my body’s a dollar sweet potato, her screen said.
The kissed fingerpad touched wet with wine orbiting.
Omens from the Lord, or Nature, the clouds, some darker silhouette.
“You mean to fall in love with your wife while I’m gone,” she said.
Enough with the stranger, their transcendent experience of art.
What I really meant to say is that I am tired. Beauty can demand so much.
I had promised my children to end the war before they grew up.
You smile into the phone static, the breath of your beloved.
Severe knobs of head and tail: one a horn of venom, the other masked.
I was only five when Dad told me I had died. “You drowned,” he said.
I wonder if those tiny computers in pigeons’ brains ever crash?
Her husband is away at the family cabin, and she is glad for the space.
We fed our dreams inevitable sins, the kind you lie about till you grow mean.
This morning drifts of sand hissed along the shore like mist.
We pull up alongside the great body. The fin marks the spot.
It wants to name the dead—without a name you wander lost in the sky.
We’d never had a cross word, but I’d never corrected him.
Wrung taut & tender at the soft play of fingertips, we breathe desires. Laughter takes refuge in bodies no longer coaxed to move. Nature becomes a thought.
Where will we go and how will we steer when the cars are gone?
What about writers who come suddenly into full power late in life?
What about writers who come suddenly into full power late in life?
If he could not evade a serious question by a joke, he bolted.
I hightailed it out of the hospital like my ex-wife was a prison I’d escaped.
I open the door and Eleanor is leaning against the wall, paper white.
I make a point of smelling the lilac every day that first week in May.
