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Youthexpand_moreDavid Lee
All the bears in the zoo look pathetic. Their eyes glazed, bodies lethargic.
A sociopathic streak on my father’s side I try to put to good use.
Charlie wasn’t Lena’s first love, but he counted on being her last.
“Oh, Jesus.” It’s the greatest shame since 1929’s stock market.
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.
I bow to the life being lived in this finch on my terrace this morning.
Your friends are sniffing glue from a paper bag in the back of an Impala.
The laughter rises like the roar of a train as the men leap to their feet.
“The kiels take extra time, but then you know your meats. Questions?”
It is the night of whores and monsters, but without the killings.
There lay before us a bag that gave forth, at a touch, the jingle of gold.
Buster’s reasons for looking after Marco weren’t entirely altruistic.
He bound me to blind obedience, for which I’d shown a propensity.
We press closer to look at a picture: a handcuffed boy leaning toward us.
Who needs driftwood when I can bury myself in your loamy soil.
She wears her nakedness like it has been woven from air.
A simple line of raging wet nearby, how as a kid I pictured the Nile.
Your words will strike her heart like Saint Teresa’s flaming arrow.
Dan Gerber reads poems of boyhood, and from the end of his mother’s life.
The air has grown inside me. It’s become a sanctuary.
What’s left is a thumbhouse, an inch of gristle inside skin walls.
One day, we will all turn into choir girls—all soft and hollow inside.
Not all his children love themselves. Look at little Adrienne.
Wicked fictions wrap a young tongue’s sweet-tipped fibs into fact.
My “lonelymaking.” Also known as my horrible secret, continent-wide.
The night shower is a personal pan-blizzard, a folklore-free zone.
I wore the rose pants for weeks without telling anyone.
