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Timeexpand_moreFinger tracing the terrain, you hold me through autumn’s loss of color.
We drink to Nixon’s impeachment again, this time with the good stuff.
she thrust to where her gut bucked acid & gave out a taurine heave
cannibal chowder and a kiss by the splashing voices of a pool
The windshield’s dirty, the squirter stuff’s all gone, so we drive on.
I’m tired of the song the rain sings in June, the chorus of hope.
Show me your darkness, your nothing-to-see and everything to touch.
A real or imagined boundary, crossed. End of the line. Lined out.
His mooseness was implacable, the light behind him from the trees.
An empty day without events. And that is why it grew immense as space.
All of this leaves me floating in seas of prehistory and indeterminacy.
What felt like sanctity now felt like nothingness, like death.
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.
Before giant pandas earn heir name, they cub pinkly and mewling.
“I’m sorry,” I wrote, “but I have to go back to the bookstore.” My only plan was to plead for my old job back. To my surprise, it worked. The law was safe; the law was my father. I decided to go to law school.
Every life is an imperfect continuation of another.
I wound through the Gothic castle buildings in the university.
I was once a rider of mastodons, a waitress showing skin.
Words appear like the answer to a question I hadn’t yet asked.
She does not know within a decade she will unload a slug into her mouth.
The appetite for self-surrender is nothing new in our makeup.
I halt and watch a monk, under plum boughs, sweeping flitting shreds.
Those trees—each an epoch with its origin and history, rising into night.
I wear a gray sweater not unlike the one my father used to wear.
Isn’t it nice to think tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes yet?
Descent jumps and jostles, nausea drops me back to the floodplain.
The child at the rummage sale— more souvenirs than memories.
Hemorrhages, it was thought, do not appear for no reason.
The rings of Saturn flash their nothing yellows, nothing blues beautiful.
