I’d never heard this quiet voice of her, this slow talking, this way of speaking which seemed to be attuned to an inside rhythm matchless in quietness and slowness, as if coming from beyond the walls of the house and the yard and the walls of all other houses and from beyond all Aron Awa and from beyond all the mountains

Cold, little

I remember nothing about that day

but what I do remember is that little was said

I mean you said very little

& I heard much of what you said

Neatly Obsessed with Being

am neatly obsessed with warm concrete
am neatly obsessed with my favorite water brand
am neatly obsessed with tercets & triplet hearts
am neatly obsessed with names that a hold a home
am neatly obsessed with streets that overflow in obscurity
am neatly obsessed with trails that go on for miles
am neatly obsessed with packages that read like blankets

The Apocalypse Survivor’s Aubade

I know you’re out there, lost in your pillows
of ash and grief, to rise only to mourn

yesterday, today, and all tomorrows,
wrapped alone in strange strangling sheets, worn

as little shrouds after the little death
of another sunset celebration.

Each night a worship of pink delights, breath
held captive in our private elation

With You Asleep in Texas

In Spain some say: the streets are not yet paved.
If I were not walking here and standing
and standing and looking so early this morning,
I could occupy a chair of metaphysics


Why do I with coffee carve out hunger and the edge
in the morning nearly dire as a man on a ledge?
Because in the dark the peeling eucalyptus trees.
Because you are subtle as a ballot box
perfumed with the oil of cottonseeds
magical with possibilities, odd as a fox
or a girl organizing seven keys.

Eye, year

the third year they had known

tried to listen over

warplanes wild cats & windmills

if only one or the other had a third eye