A moth’s tetrapterous body is impaled—
as if by the pins of its eyes—
on the green screen door of my kitchen.Read More
When things get lost, where do they go?
I don’t mean the hair clip, the striped umbrella,
a borrowed book. I mean: Where in space
is there a place for what is left of things
once they expire or seem extinct?
In the morning she slept late until I came
to bring her tea in bed, a napkin, a plate
with toast and cheese. Slurred she’d say, So soon?
and raise her body—stolid, languorous whale—
from the sea of dreams it had been swimming in.
How old are you that you're permitted to wander late
nights alone? You walk in circles, tongue-
tied, coyly dropping pallid, scanty scarves
into puddles. For whom?
Are you in love, or a pilgrim seeking absolution?
How can you run so fast without feet,
without getting away?Read More