The dawn makes much of me,
flooding as she does
over the delta of dark.
The cowardice of night,
the dryness on the dark,
amaze me like
the paranoia at the foot of
my bed,
gnawing his hands
and begging for bandages.
Dawn always grows up.
Noon holds me in
a vice grip,
and I yearn for my shadow
and his praise of me.
Slowly,
sun turns to chaos
and things separate.
Evening falls like linen
on my hair.
Holier,
I brave the coming dark,
already thirsty,
as the light flows
to her next season.
(The celestial sobbing
of a year cut short.)
When the world ends,
we will all be high,
laughing at the telenovelas
we have lived.
The fire will clash with ice.
But where it all really
breaks down
is the anticipating
burning in the dumpster.
Like champagne
the old distrust bubbles
out from my upturned tumbler.
Now there is nothing
but trust.
(We all know how it ends.)
Oval angels
make math difficult
The leaves have turned white.
They know what that means
and don’t want to
talk about it.
On paper,
the universe is as dull as
a towel.
The universe as a theory
reminds me of an
old riverbed.
In practice,
it is a high, drunken girl
looking to get away.
The angels always
keep the music,
numbers just out of reach.
The moon casts a shadow
on my bed.
The cat scratches at the door.
It isn’t mine—
the cat or the door.
Splayed across my bed,
an ancient dream
just vaguely glossy.
Miniature Moon 