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Salt provokes, tenderizes. Your wounds, your dinner.

My soul is simple; it doesn’t think. Something strange paces there now.

A goddess was offended; her altar required my virgin blood.

But too much rain can translate anything to unspeakable.

She commands, under her breath, You must be the son.

The poem I can’t yet write saves itself for when it can’t be avoided.

David Lee

Beyond her ampleness, he stands a small man vanquished.

My mother is queen of buttons. She shows off the prized ones.

My lust works like the tides pulling in reverse, controlled by a simple ballast.

On a morning in November words appeared at the end of my pen.

Think how you move, how a room changes with your smallest breath.

A memory in the drip, drip, drip of the kitchen sink that won’t stop.

All right. We are perfect. Tomorrow we will make a million dollars.

I tell my sister what I didn’t tell my father, I love you. Please, don’t die.

I know which home takes the turning, which mind washes in hot water.

I awakened on my belly—my back a raw field from nape to heels.

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.

They cut you off, let fall your hammered silver bracelets to the sand.

Now he chuckles with the sea, stitched within its timeless jive.

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

The dove calls from far away in itself to the hush of the morning

I am visited daily by unrelenting spirits evoking my accumulated flaws.

Hemingway’s The Garden of Eden was edited by Tom Jenks.

One of us broke away, cooled, and died, having never fully lived.

Buster’s reasons for looking after Marco weren’t entirely altruistic.

And both of them standing there in late afternoon light, looking back.