Category: Poetry

I am flexible and flickable, buoyant, / pulpable. These are my only truths. / And the golden rail down my back // like a wick of fire.

Gossamer horizon. The trees are less dense with their colors / than last year. Still, what might be called splendor. // Or slippage. Through slight gaps in our fingers, we watch / a gathering sky...

The children have no idea where the passages / lead, whether other routes to the surface exist, / and which branches might contain breathable / air.

Start the game. / Remove your clothes. / Put your hands on your body.

In chapter one, the history / of the soft drink, Joseph Priestly, / who discovered oxygen, lived / near here.

In the middle of the night / they woke nude as newborn rats / vascular, milky and afraid

I often think about a stranger I helped—if he made / it home or to the hospital, if he still breathes. // It was the hottest summer on record in New York City.

You think now / how the one who's been / buried beneath still yearns to reach out & somehow be- / come the green slurry, that chewed pulp dripping from the pony's maw.