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You’ve gathered more knowledge than you’d need for nine lives.

It was only a matter of time before the damp of loss grew within us like moss.

How do we heal our savage hearts, foolish wrath gone rogue on any soul.

At 35,000 feet, the center of heaven, in the deep Milky Way, we meet.

You try to confess your crime of turning the world into words.

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, the flying cloud, the frosty light.

Your hand on my nightgown, my soft places. I wish you wouldn’t do that.

Sound the flute! Now it’s mute! Bird’s delight, day and night.

Lie down & whisper all your careless dreams into my votive ear.

Noelle, somewhere symphony number two listens to you breathing.

Play hero, sunburned protagonist, awake in our dream.

It’s the human genius of reproducing not quite exactly.

What I want is a woman who knows all the meanings of indulgence.

I was a son again until my parents died. Even then, I felt like myself.

I must be led by what was given to me as streams are led by it

She couldn’t have carried knowledge their kind would soon be extinct. The sediment came when it did, sealing them in their varied positions.

What a good time we could have if we were happy to be who we are.

My days pass through me as music through a thin, stretched wire.

She was here. She could not go on. It was the end—the end of the world.

Another disposable medical mask drying in the June sun after all the ceremonies are done Looks for a second like a lip snarling in that flirting way you see the tattooed girls snarl

Walking on Canal Street, I slipped on the curb and fell on my face.

Come winter, they go to the funeral early & count the living.

I peel back the hours and search for the light before it scatters.

I’ve got other plans. And they don’t center on ringnecks.

Having held down the past applying pressure to its sacrum . . .

You’ve trained me well in the art of intimate distance. It’s not been easy.

three women came in their nakedness so i could choose from among them

I want to step out into sun to scintillate for waves to come and spray.

Stocking shelves, like serving, is a job that will not let go of your mind.