All my poetry has gone quiet,
a silence settled everywhere,
not grown around a hollowness
or absence, but instead
a presence, diffuse and
full of metaphor, heavy
where it drips from gossamer
thoughts, soft as mist where
it dissipates. We could hide
here for days without words,
a substantive lull of limbs,
an inconversable languidness
of bedsheets & shared dreams
& sunlight which says plenty
without bottling it in ink.
For my friend on the occasion of her wedding. What I know of mirrors is their imperfection, their imbalance of mathematics: one reflects one, & we imagine this is wholeness & we believe we know oursel
For my friend on the occasion of his wedding. No eye for art, you said, and turned toward Hunger, livid color leaving you cold, neither keen, nor compelling, not enough, not when you already know how
It is not Death that watches us with suspicion, yet you invoke Her name anyway, make of Her a boundary, make of me an earthen intimacy. There is no revelry in roots no matter how deep they run, only f