After fate untwisted,
she left a trail of
disastrous death in my driveway.
I need an incantation
to summon the voice in my
hands.
Sprawled lazily across
the concrete,
hieroglyphics bleeding
with age.
I drew them.
My people ran down
the lane years ago
to hunt the sneaky beast.
I am the only one left,
struggling to clutch my ochre
with broken hands.
In the noon glow,
the thrill of intimacy
while she maps me with
her tongue.
She knows my hips and
my secrets.
I know her shoulders,
her navel.
On the table,
my thoughts
on her sweet, moisturized skin,
my senses.
She has one finger in my world,
then her tongue on my secrets
polishing them.
The naturalized sky
does not fit in here,
stylizes himself after
the hapless fop in the café.
Before the sky signed up
with us,
I was like a firefly
in a jar with no lid—
except I was too stupid
to leave.
Before sky,
we had limitless
and endangered.
Now we have a cap
binding our angels
closer to us,
and selling our demons
into our authoritarian world.
Ether is just a dandy,
the accumulation of
blue, just garish.
He doesn’t belong here.
Everyone is looking
at him.
Crows circle my condo,
nest on the roof to taunt
the hawks.
The sweet vibrations of
a busy week well up
from the foundation.
My days are painted
with doors
over a base coat of darkness.
I take my sacred wishes
out to the trash.
Crows will collect them.
Hawks grab me on my way
back to home.
The wanton thunder laps up
the silence.
Sweat from a world of
goals spills out over the street.
My skin is dry.
Oceans in my ears
receive cargo ships of lead.
Fishing in front of the shops,
the woman with
an unknowable face.
She is the only one
Who has an umbrella,
The only one who doesn’t
Need one.
I want her to speak a
language of breeze behind
my ear,
letting her fingers wander
over my shoulders then down.
The flavorful ghost of
pink will hover over us.
I have nothing to grip
but my body when her hands
dip lower
like cloth into a basin.
In my glitter book
I write stories.
Adverb symphonies,
I explain preciously.
Expediently
is always precocious.
The problem with plot
is a lack of self-awareness.
Leaving my pen to face
her fears on the precipice
of the table,
I see the morning’s
crumbs
rearrange—
spell,
but why should I care?
Rivers of diamond water
cascade along the coast.
Men dip their hands in the water
come out like living seizures.
Coming and going in the rivers,
Laser beams.
Women on the shore
Collect sharp rocks.
My husband is cloaked
in information.
When he slips my pelerine
off my shoulders,
the heat of my borrowed home
sinks into my chest,
exhausted.
Mouth on mine,
he breathes empire into me.
Always his tongue studded
in stats.
Interested,
I absorb his mind.
I absorb everything.
I absolve the world of nothing.
My husband kisses me
with countries I’ll never see.
With all his facts he
warms my figure.
In the shadow behind the drapes,
heart aglow and beating,
living illustration of a lost
red charm.
Allergic to light,
he is happy when unnoticed.
Children talk about him.
Houseplants have faith in him.
The sun-soaked parents don’t believe.
The oysters were alive
when mother extracted
Her pearls.
It is in the dim hiding
places that being is born.
Frightened,
the children watch the feet
that peep out from under the drapes
shift.
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.
Miniature Moon 