The oncologist instructs you to lie face down
like you’re going to get a massage
except you’re not going to get a massage.
And you think of the thousands of dollars
you spent while hooked on erotic massage
during the final years of your third marriage.

Martha would read the newspaper more than once;
box scores, her favorite, and cartoons that made her laugh.
Small stories with big fame: mothers lifting cars
and the obituaries of the not so named

I dig for shelter
in a homespun
endometrial layer

each new moon
like the first rain
each crimson drop
seething…

He rode in on horseback, his silky mustache
And I was worried for his life. Not that he couldn’t
Care for himself. He had strong legs, especially
The thighs. He was so impressionable among
The men. Christian took an instant liking

In the summer heat, the friction of feet melts the city’s asphalt to sludge. A mammoth wave curls over Broad. Cocoons pigeons and taxis. Engulfs cardboard boxes, condos, and their inhabitants. Folds into itself.

An angry goat fronts
the entrance of the trail –
an unfamiliar gatekeeper.

Payment is an exchange
of glances, a thousand
yards to nowhere.

I walk paths near my home
And think about breaking language
In pieces. I think about the shards
Scattered by will and hunger
Because so much has been lost.

The days of lone children
riding atop handlebars
through cookie-cutter neighborhoods
are memories of yesteryear.
They’re sepia photographs
in an attic-ridden album
blanketed in a thick film of dust.

Framed diploma and teacher’s license,
taped on the institutional wall,
these credentials face the stars.
The star-struck welcome board posts a message:
Practice safety.
But will these stars fade, fall into the waste basket?

Late summer days, relentless sun
heating the morning city, turning
afternoon to a concrete sauna
during the searing days of August,
when, even at night, the asphalt steams.

One corner brick
100 year old black blossom stained across
Northeast soot fading
to raw pink orange southwest
Checks the force of two walls
20 bricks under
100 press down from above

There is a man falling from the sky.
I am serious. He is carrying a photon clock
and the light inside is stretching
the duration of a second. The speed of light.

I looked through the window of the dead
bar. Marantha was slow dancing
with the semblance of Rāfe. They were
shape shifting like shadows on a wall—
The barkeep said, ‘Anders, it’s time.

Milkweed, tumbleweed,
native grasses (unworthy of names, I guess):
the prickly pews above a red clay floor;
my first church was
on the other side of the backyard gate
in childhood.

Cantering after dawn along the Downs,
she pressed her knees and brought him to a walk,
then loosed the reins as if she’d lost her way.
He came to a standstill at the crossing paths.

the body disabled
is most times a cacophonous suite—
moans, a cry, a groan in fortissimos
mounting fading to and from abrupt
weakness
as misguided antibodies
rhythm forward, injure receptors

Some time ago I was like an open palm held out for a reading,
all its lines criss-crossing
and indicating one determined future or another.

I only remember my waking dreams from then,
as if sleep was too close to death
to access the underlayers of my mind

The amount of love I hold for him is absurd.
The human body contains approximately 1.5 gallons of blood,
and at least 1.6 gallons of mine is laced with tiny crystal hearts,
each lit up with pictures of his lopsided grin, his uneven teeth,
and that little freckle dotted on his upper lip

When I shiver with cold at night
I put on the socks of memories
boil a pot of yesterdays
promise my legs with
a blanket of tomorrows

As for the darkness of eternity
a little light by your bed
might do as the wind
flings itself against your wall
weathering all away

I can’t quite make normal work for me.
The angle, the navigating, the placement.
I’ve lost the how to manual for contorting
my body to use makeshift MacGyver skills
and filthy underbrush to survive on.
I’m not sure how it happened.

I see the autumn leaves falling. I ponder chance as they release.
Watch as they glide, then gently come to rest. A shading life,
clung to a branch, in the final moments breaking free.

Starved for art,
we were made for poetry;
we are mad for poetry.

Study this hunger;
learn how to feed it.

250 million years ago
an ancient cephalopod
once stretched upon granite
and Time remembers
a tail dragging in thirsty sand.

Meanwhile, She is getting away from us:
a child no one sees