I tilt my head to the sky, see whether Andromeda is listening. Just a human being, I lose it, reach for the ceiling. Our paisley wreckage paints my veins like rush hour; [More…]
Genre: Poetry
Another Poetry Occasion
I have been writing poems like this one for a while now. Poems that mark temporally specific occasions within material objects that constrain the length of the [More…]
Hannibal Dreams of Rome
It’s hard to wrestle in mire;
hard to balance in mud:
But we’ll ford the swampy mess
our swords will make,
sinking hard inches into every blanching belly.
I Ask My Mother What It’s Like, Living at the Bottom of the Ocean
My mother gets harder to see.
You must be busy, she says.
I’ll join you soon, I joke.
Paris-Prague and Back
1
The matter finds itself in this circumstance with its fat fingers its warts It came in an official tricolor car It crosses the bridges shows its cuffs the matter makes matters and enfolds us in tunnels toward night when the domestic screen is softly lit
An Inheritance
In 1974 my mother drove a fern
from Montreal to Vancouver
in a Datsun
spritzed it at the gas stations
and took the corners gently
as its reach filled space with limbs
between the luggage,
as its terra cotta anchored it
to a moving thing.