a wooden ladder drifts up // through the straying branches. Time / slowed down by the quiet almost
a tongue is a hallway for asking—there is a right way to respond, a nearing of ends spelled / meticulous at a testing
I’m thinking about Dave Robinette throwing Budweiser bottles / at those big fellows in the Baltimore biker bar when Barbara / walks by and says she wishes I were her little boy and her husband
Poor boy, poor the girl / I was, neither really wanted to— / But the drinking in the room was boring, we were hard-thinking / bodies, and swimming was out of the question.
I thought nothing of ripping out a page / from the little blue spiral-bound notebook / my husband keeps on the coffee table— / until I saw the imprints of previous words / he'd written in his usual capital letters
I was a shit-list and snuck skeleton keys into whiteness and when I hit the woods I got lost. Shame became my monstrous after-shave.
a disk of light / fall on the glass // could be the full autumn moon / through trees / but it’s the wind
The sound of coyotes comes in off the balcony. Our dog stares, wild-eyed.