The sky grays into the same
smudged fingerprint.
The heat kicks on. Soon the skin
by my thumbnail will crack.
The moon will stick
to branches without leaves.
Loneliness
is the rain that falls all day.
Archives for November 2016
November
November 7, 2016 by 3 Comments
Notes
November 4, 2016 by Leave a Comment
The black Bell telephone rings. That sound had lingered. Outside, throats hidden beneath a leaf, faces blunted, the toads have stopped waiting to be collected. Slowly then, as though my queasy blank might meet itself and soar deep into the blue invisibility of a Northern sky, Isabelle Faust draws her bow across a charcoal portrait hanging in my mind. Ones appear in such gaps as the eye provides and the ear can’t ignore, if not their expressions. They stay welcome but stay alone, and sing their sighs through spaces between forgettings. Only grief hears them out. The violin is not higher than the viola; it is smaller. Each note contains a fingertip touching something so like itself there remains no distinction in the echo.
we know how it is with windows
November 2, 2016 by 1 Comment
how that night
mother opened them and slept
heard girls singing // to each other in the olive trees
heard her own lung // gnawing its way through rib
crawling along the blue walls // out into the miracle
of the night’s only wolf // and waking
how she could only // breathe half the air // speak
half the words she knew // a beast born to beasts
into a morning black and hot as a rabbit’s womb
into a shirt pressed wet against her skin
