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David Lee

I saw a bat in a dream and then later that week I saw a real bat.

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.

My mother’s house was packed, painted, put up for sale—sold.

Bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, and fill all fruit with ripeness.

Help me, please help me, is the beggar’s refrain on the F train today.

I love scientists. They’re trying their hardest. And they just want love.

I should call my loves while I can to listen to the grackles croak.

Again, nature has written a good script. The skunk saga will continue.

His beauty comes from his power. I am as wary as I am drawn to it.

A psychologist told me we can train our dreams. I practice each night.

The first murder had been a half dozen years ago in a warmer city.

He was alongside without preamble. Elephants are not stealthy by nature.

Who needs driftwood when I can bury myself in your loamy soil.

What will we do without exile, and a long night that stares at the water?

The coverage of the state funeral, black horse bearing an empty saddle.

My “lonelymaking.” Also known as my horrible secret, continent-wide.

I never felt heart stop or skin burn, just the first split second of sound.

Wicked fictions wrap a young tongue’s sweet-tipped fibs into fact.

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

Our brains interpolate from surrounding images, fooling us.

I slept but never dreamed there. Nor did I feel the need to court a god.

The air has grown inside me. It’s become a sanctuary.

It’s the roll-up-your-sleeves hour, when you have to make a living.

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

It wasn’t clear if there was an outside world to our outside world.

These natives have the smiles we haven’t seen since we were children.

The waves of laughters breach an inlet of cumulus and I’m excited.