Red, burgundy, blue,
this is my roof, I belong here.
Bread crumbs, jugs, paper and
the wind lifting all of this to the sea.
Archives for September 2017
Jeremy and Wiwar
Jeremy knew at once that he need go no further north than the Isle of Skye. He embarked for Portree and sailed across violet waters under a mizzling rain, with only an occasional maw screeching aft and, far off, a few shearwaters in flight so exquisite as to nullify any notion of assault. He landed in a place of dreams.
The Future’s Not Ours To See
The first time the new phone rang, F. and his wife were pleased. They had purchased the top-of-the-line instrument on a recent shopping trip, one of a number of such trips to equip the new townhome.
Before Afternoon
She sat in a lounge chair with her long toes pointed towards the water. It was a Tuesday, she thought, but that didn’t mean anything. She reached for her drink. Mornings were no longer a time of day, just after she got up. She assumed it was still earlier than noon based on the angle and the heat of the sun.
I’m Not Carlos
There is a whole forest of tree machines in central Maine that have been programmed to turn on me. I’m certain of it. When I am absolutely silent, I can hear them plotting. It sounds like a gentle wind.
Spica
Habitat of obdurate melancholy,
the center lands of
minute consequence, rank
The Box
What did you learn from the dead?
To turn cold in stages to stage
bleed an invisible instant goddamn
Letter From Prison #2
us with no light
the dog edging its nose
out the window and snapping the air
Prisoner’s Wreath #2
This charcoal way surrounds my spot in dust
Dusty property the grit of the word
Word it so the song persists in a trust
Sonnet 12: A Dialogue
“Do you know that it really could be cool