I want a little more bureaucracy
in my horror.
We are currently closed for submissions.
Zach Braff is the perfect manic pixie dream boy
for any pet funeral, and yet, I suppose
he didn’t get the memo that he was meant
to come down from the Garden State and do the honors.
HALF PAST 11:00 sleeps in my bed and refuses to be
roused. I tuck the sheets in tight before I leave for work
At the dark sky campsite I put a red filter over my flashlight.
I’m sorry to do this to you right now. I know the movers are coming in two days. I can picture you in your apartment: the sunset over the city glistening through your floor-to-ceiling windows, Joni Mitchell or Linda Ronstadt crooning in the background while you bubble-wrap your dishes. I know you don’t have time for this. Timing has never been my strong suit. My only defense is: I can’t think about anything else.
Do you, by any chance, remember the first time we met?
He only allows my entrance to unbutton my dress
and form those animal poses. To be near him
is to be reduced to line
Our chapbooks
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Here, riding in a taxi on the Manhattan Bridge
late at night in a pit-pat drizzle,
everything looks puffy from the back seat window
Just under the browned swamp surface: a reaching
neck (not pictured). The edge of a stick (pictured).
The tiger makes it all so easy, the way it sweeps the woman’s house, packs a satsuma for her snack, accounts for the taxes.
He was NBA-player height
converted to Judaism to marry
And the town crier cries la localende! This is one of the stories where a stranger
comes to town. A stranger with a stranger tool.
Come down from the hill freckled with mustard gesare. You know the stuff, Mara
how it explodes in middle spring.
Nearing the corner I held the rifle steady, my trigger-finger taut. My heart thumped with this simple thrill. These new guns were quick to fire, and accurate, but we’d yet to work out how to store two rubber bands, so I still only had the one shot. I couldn’t waste it. Halfway to the corner, a blind angle obscured by honeysuckle, I paused, listening.
The perfect object is a bird never seen, heard, or otherwise sensed behind fir trees along the bank of a river sounding ceaselessly, while you walk with her hand-in-hand through the undergrowth.
which summer is this
arithmetic is one thing, freckles another
power drags from the east in a late august storm
