new poems sent to you

Monday, 24 December 2018

Edinburgh arrival

Hello there, do not think it will be easy to get in.
There’s a key on the other side,
Blocking your way.
It grows dark and you are confused.
Next door, the cemetery is silent and wet.
The shops are closed early.
At city center, where the bustle grows
Like a fungus, every language
Curls up the old stone walls.
But your pack is heavy,
2 days heavy with no sleep.
No change, the bus driver says smiling.
Aberfeldy hitch

First hold a sign for Perth
A701 south to Edinburgh bypass (45 minute walk)
A720 west to fog at roundabout or straight on to the M8
M8 west to m9
M9 north to m90
M90 to A9 @ Perth
A9 to A827 @ Logierait
A827 to Aberfeldy

When I make it outside again
John Leslie wasn’t serving food
So I head to the old bell inn
All red leather and short wood tables.
Order a 15yr Scapa and fish n chips.
17 pounds. A bundled woman walks in
With a terrier, the two men beside me
Are incoherently drunk and clasping
Each other’s hands very close
To their red faces. It is 6pm.

Later I learn, only one
Was drunk. Tom. 68.
He says two or three words before throwing
The rest away with his hands. He’s 68.
Was in the hazy, now alone. 68. He says
He had 3 sisters, tears fill with eyes behind smudged glasses
How did his fingers get so big, too big to touch eyes.
He pounds his fist. I think he’ll hit me.
I’m sure he’d rather that than cry. After,
I think of where he’ll go. He was wearing
A wedding ring. Still. 68. But it
Was 6pm and he’s too sad for
Me to imagine him home
Anywhere but the old bell inn.
“And it seems like I’ll miss autumn in Edinburgh
That’s the one I should have spent with you—
With the rain lashing down, a fog on the meadows
As the festival lights, as the festival lights go dim”
At the royal oak
We were joking
About her being a prostitute
Forward limbs in the holiday lights
Two foreigners on a piano bench
Bad teeth. Something about how the fog rises
Outside and the uncollard husky inside
Scratching at the door—
A splotchy man in a turtleneck
Hugging his guitar to his chin
Singing “city of immigrants”
And the whisper of sickness at my
Neck keeping me quiet and
The night could be forgotten one way
Or another but probably
This one.

She was the only sloppy nicotine
Kiss I didn’t want but sometimes
You’ve got a folk tune in there
That doesn’t quite

“What are you writing?” She asks —“I’m on
An adventure, look at me
Having feelings and being a pretty lad” then
She hit me in the mouth.

Make a big deal about the purpose
Of the trip to a lot of women
A lot of sad women there
And in this room listening to
The pudgey man with the black guitar.
But first thing I do is always first,
Didn’t choose anything, just wanted
Is all. I was quiet enough for her
To project what she desired
And when I did choose 1 book of Scottish poetry
To bring, spent an hour sweating
With my pack in a crowded bookstore—
The poet I chose is from Iran
He never lived in this land
And neither shall I.
Hope is not circumstantial
But constant, not a rain,
But a well
Of purpose.
Here I am sick in the drizzle
Reading the poetry of a young alcoholic
Trying to let down so I can rise
Before dawn.
With the black travel

Monday, 17 December 2018

Day 1 Scotland— in the air

Sitting in Stewart airport 2 hours outside of NYC, I wonder what the fuck I’m doing. I’ve taken two weeks off of work to go to a place I do not know where I know no one and it is cold and I have no plan. I’ve got 20 minutes until my plane boards for another continent.

I got here on 2 buses and a shared cab with 3 people I met on the streets of New York sprinting as we were told there were no more seats on the last bus to the airport. I squeezed my phone with its eboarding pass in sweaty palms. So much for planning.

10 minutes before boarding and I break down and text her, my love, though we agreed we would not speak until February. I love her, she is in all beauty I see. And someday we will know nothing together again.

I am thinking about dying a lot these days. After the synagogue shooting,  butive also always been ready to be attacked. Since I can remember I daydreamed of passers by in the street suddenly turning on me. I’ve thought about what I would do and felt that adrenaline. How’s that for internalized generational trauma?!

I’m thinking about dying in the air, in a car, on a cliff. My ability to decide anything is more important than fear is key to my concept of self and strength. I refuse to be directed by fear alone.

What does this trip mean? 2 weeks in Scotland alone. Is it an escape? A journey closer to the heart? A seeking of distraction? I could go across the world and watch Netflix, could go and sleep with a bunch of women, could go live out of hotels or B&bs or hostels. It is all free and somewhat arbitrary.

I want to see myself, not look away— be nervous, be unsure, figure it out, listen to what my soul wants. I will not do things to not feel bad.

I wrote a few poems that first 36 hour day, here they are—

I’ve got a knack for missing buses,
Early dark nights of uncharted
Destinations, squinting to match.
I’m not the only one— when it’s cold
Our eyes close more than open, mouths
More open than ever to let in light we say,
Arms and legs open such that
They are closed to what we need at times.

What I mean is this:
Nobody has to be on this
180 seat airplane about to cross
The Atlantic at hundred of mph, we each
Made our way here on different flickering
Paths, but here is the same air recycled
Through or lungs, in all of us a glimmering,
That something about the world will be different
When we reach land again.

I’m in love with a kind of love that
Sticks and burns like ice
Spreading— I want a woman
With legs like the sun
And a mind like the churning moon
And lips like fall
And I love her human human eyes.

About to cross a world
Into wild abundance (I hope),
The throaty cry of winter in the highlands
Calling me. But it is her forehead
Against mine I feel, her words
In my hair.

Each morning as I sit in silence
Sometimes naked dripping from the shower
But usually rushed and barely dipped in day,
I release all I do not need,
All that is not me,
All that sorry,
All that pushes and pulls,
All I cannot breathe.

It’s shocking how often
When my breath and heart slow
When the whir of words quiets
Tothe dumb pulse of me—
How often I am left unalone,
With a thousand others who’ve touched
And been touched
We expand and flow with each other.
I feel it for a moment
As we begin to fly.


Goodnight lights over the Atlantic My grandmothers cousin crashed his plane Into your sharp deep when he was only a boy They found the machine 60 years later And had a ceremony, I’m not sure It was called a burial One Monday night at dinner she Pulls out the letter he wrote her— Young men will always be the same I think—all excitement and lithe bravado At the first taste of the mystery. My seat mate pulls out a half drunk bottle of Tito’s on the plane. We muffle our conversation and eat smuggled chocolates together As the lights grow fewer and The reality that I am on this journey alone Sets in. Tomorrow I will wake amidst the green- Shake of Ireland, and then The gravel led hills of Scotland And no women nor booze nor fight nor story Shall change the moment to moment The ebb and throb. There are practices for the heart But then there is the willingness To sit still To lower the heart down Into the grey chill of real anxiety For a few moments and then draw it out. To feel it, know it by choice, To be in readiness Not fooled by any quick boozy warmth or fantasy. Find a pride in Be ready for this to be it.

Sunday, 18 November 2018


I was bathing with an old swedish couple,
feet planted in the raw grain of the wooden tub
when the feeling came on, up from somewhere
In the community room of the japanese healing studio in south somerville
Or from the screaming jet pouring its heart out into oceans of sweat
Next to the Jewish lesbian union organizer
Who has just won a 6 week strike.
Flakes of dirt and skin swirl out
And all of it is too hot, steam pushing up
my blood. what life is left for us?
We fight with brittle nails for a place to sink the seeds.
Jake and Sid are dead and their ash seems to cloud the world
Like the gnashing fires of the west.
Our old homefeeling is gone, has packed his bags and fled over the hills.

Yesterday by the old watch tower, i stood still for 45 minutes
As the sky turned pink then grey then swallowed itself
With the forks and knives of the city. Is it supposed
To grow feeble with age, this desire? Or simply more cunning,
Sharper and quicker, to find the veins of this world?
I wonder if any fight is enough to satisfy this beast inside me
That wants to eat Nazis and fuck poets and
Suck the sap from my sweet brothers until we must all die of it
Or else live forever.

I climb out to the trees behind the mountain that stretch on for miles,
And try not to hear the cars, the white noise of sleep.
This society, these thousands of people where the light touched just before
It gave way to shadow, we are crawling into the wet earth of our end.
I feel it when i breathe now, the air is sticky with its gummy pulp.
Try to spend 10 minutes with it sometime,
Between the cold of our arms plunged into a great river seeking to become islands there.
and the creeping pollution of our choices thickening the blood.
Our joy is stung with it, brutal brightness of light that leaves polyps
Of darkness as you blink away in surprise.

As i rubbed my eyes in the tub, muscles all hot
And loose and swollen, i see across from me
The overweight swedish woman has laid her head back
Into her husband’s hand, and her belly rises above the water like
A whale, and her eyes close as her feet leave the ground,
Silked up by her husband,
hands thin and stiff, veins below the skin wandering , curling up around her
Thick limbs like dried flowers. She sighs.
He steps out into the deep
And slowly
Turns her
And forth

And later when i am shaving my face in the steam of the shower
The touch of those hot blades on my neck is too much
And i lose them in the stream.
The gentle holding of that love,
How strange it appears to me, a bright room
I cannot quite make out through a snowy window,
How shocking the tenderness of their shared frailty.

We must move through this world with that too.

Sunday, 30 September 2018

First Day

Malden, you smell like donuts,
Gummy sidewalks, and the benches
In front of citizen’s bank where bald
Men in tank tops wait for you to open.
Forgive me my trespasses, it is
My first day. I’ve made it to some
Center ring where the people fly about
Like birds preparing for Janus
And the birds build nests at the top
Of Corinthian pillars. We’ve got
An open floor plan so you can see
Big sky and feel not so old fashioned,
So you can stare off and imagine a woman
In the Philadelphia heat, pulling up her skirt as
She steps over the grass this morning.
In the clocks I wait like moisture, face
Pressed up against some future I might be.
But we are also in the knowledge that
We don't change, the world does, like water
Through a sieve, everything is everything
It was, but different now. And some things,
left behind. I wonder
If I will be happy.
City wind and bus sounds
Store themselves anywhere they can,
Around the corner, in the small of my back.
My family has lived here for four generations.
Who do I think I am
With my blue suede shoes?

Monday, 24 September 2018

summer gone

there is a speed at which
the white of water
and hum of the engine
and slaps of cloth on skin
and wide blue sky fold into one.

we began singing when
we believed, somewhere in our guts
that day lunged forward into night
with open arms, that we were howling
with the wolves of every people.
now the words
are gone, a bright sun behind the veil,
crows following seagulls over
the hill. the family sleeps
in sand, books folded over our eyes like years
spent in cities without hearing
the sound of cedars in the wind. we creak
trying to reach the ones we love,
over wine or whiskey,
plans to get together again
or the few shared perspectives,
our mutual practices, done now not
for purpose but effect, keep it a family

the pen leans weary in shadow,
and day yawns with greater
and greater winds, the boats are crawling back
to their oily dens and the tan white men
with their worked on bodies
to their blond wives, and we are staying quiet
while the rocks build rounded edges with each other,
white clouds are born of nothing and release
while the clams shrug into the mud
and bubble with contentedness, while
the language of the ocean whirls stories
of which we can only see the sparkling beginnings –
and the building go up and come down
and some men buy while others drown
and some say on the whole you’ve got to admit
it is getting better, but I say
as long as any man is stuck in too shallow water,
as long any, any person is beaten down like a stake into the sand,
I want to jump into the cold, flashing ocean after him,
I want to tear my clothes and run screaming along the beach.

The sand turns salt, the salt
sand. Water evaporates to come down
again in great torrents of rain.
there is a great sense in this world, one deeper
than perhaps we will ever know,
but there is no sense in a person going hungry.

Sunday, 23 September 2018

10 days of awe and then the equinox

we watch the holy beast of fall land
through double panes,
feathers dropping sickly
and storms on the horizon.

each in their room,
folding t-shirts, cutting hair--
Somerville drowses richly, thickly,
grey paved and still hungry after dinner.

when jonah turned his back on Nineveh,
he said he would rather die than change his life.
so God made his choice his world.

In the Museum of Fine Arts, there are urns which tell you
that which you must do.
But it’s historical fact now. How curious
the edges that we have rounded.

I am in Cleveland pouring lagers
in the lava room as the Brown’s win.
I am in Denver holding a hiking pole
to the sun.
I am in Philadelphia painting my lover’s bathroom
I am in a manic state, dancing naked in the attic.

the world is not holding together
the way it used to
and beneath the house, a yawning pit opens,
the structure begins to crumble.
shall we find something else to do?

we nest, we pray,
this year I ask if we are in the belly of the whale,
or already spat out.
have you learned enough from this darkness?

We throw one hundred stones into the river
after hearing the shofar run out of breath.
the river is yeasty and yellow,
overflowing its banks with a kind of
life giving death.
on the horizon, the great oil tankers loom and
a coal train dings its dingy bell.
I miss the mark, I stray, I make mistakes.
but do I forgive?
what is it the muddy moustache says?
to see what is necessary in things
as what is beautiful.

does the grass forgive the seed?
or the wind for that matter?
or the great plain of which it is only a small part?

I am throwing up my hands these days
and thinking the stars in my bones know
something I will never own.
when the weather turns and everything in us
begins to turn too, longing to relinquish itself,
to fall away fully used as the knowledge of survival settles,
when we see our own hands reaching for an answer, let us not
turn on our phones.
let us not turn to the distracting touch.
is it cuffing season?
even if we lose everything we should not lose,
let us be quite out in the open about it:

there is a mystery here which I will certainly perish on.
this new poetry was made for our blistered mouths.

Tuesday, 22 May 2018

deep breath now

The tree in our shady front lawn
Sprouts white flowers at its peak,
Roots embedded in coupon catalogues
Swollen with rain and beer cans tossed
Over an unwelcome fence by street drinkers.

I gaze at it, leaning my neck
And arms over the ledge
Where my home meets the city.
Spring changes the tree,
The way night slowly and then suddenly
Changes the day,
The way a place can change a person.
I am leaving Philadelphia
With its magnolia trees crawling their way
Into the air to bear pink and purple petals
Thick with a sense of their own beauty.
I am leaving the children sweating happily
In muggy summer streets, kicking tired leather
In front of cars double parked for the past hour.
Over the tips of the elms planted in clark park
Some hundred years ago I can see the last sun
Highlighting the city, the way a farmer here two hundred years ago
Must have seen the First Bank with its marble tanning a few last minutes
Before settling down for a smoke and bed.

The snow collected the history of death here,
Where thousands couldn’t afford to both keep their heat
And buy breakfast for their kids so, school lunch
Became very important in strawberry mansion.
And the largest city park in the united states loomed
With dead cherry blossoms in the fall when
John coltrane’s old house hulked over an empty lot with
Two grills and a hundred syringes sprayed over the dirt.
And summer, oh the dangerous summer nights, sirens stirring
The humble buzz of mosquitoes, while we all stay out on our porches
Drinking pbr and jim beam until we run out
And refuse to sleep in the hot mess of youth.
But the spring in Philadelphia changes me,
The way it changes the tree in my yard,
The way my lover’s hand stirs the hairs on my chest
Like a bird, like a wind.
Philadelphia is always going away,
Struggling in a straight jacket of poverty,
Scraping its hands on the pavement
As it falls
And still forcing itself up.
Philadelphia is always here,
Old city with its rich gay artists
And apartment complexes going up
Like weeds from some other country covering the forest floor.
Philly, you are smelling like fire and the smoke that comes before,
Like perfume that’s left on sheets, like the paper in old books.
Philly I am leaving you, but I wait for you
To open me like spring, some day soon.

Monday, 26 March 2018

my room

I like to be in a place
Where evidence of me remains—
White walls covered with scribbled sketches,
Memories of summer evenings in the birch forest or clumsily 
beneath the oak table lying on the floor with my brothers—
My scratched watchface ticking quietly on the bed
beside me as I tuck my face into the pillow at night—
Books stacked in isolated piles randomly
like monuments to the wind in bryce canyon
Each one a series of sleepless nights and feelings of precipice
That then ended. Here where spring stubbornly
Refuses to open her sleepy petals,
I am dreaming of the moon in a sandy night sky,
I am wondering where I will be next season,
what evidence will remain behind.
I am breathing cold night air
amidst the sound of sirens.
I am pouring a dram of scotch
and wandering into the desert.
I am closing my eyes and seeing the maples davening
As the storm begins high in the mountains.

Thursday, 22 March 2018

snow day in spring

On a morning
When the snow busily
Packs itself away outside my window
And my body starts up lean and straight
As an elm out of the disheveled dirt
And the world outside is bright
And full of something that has always
Been free, how could there be
Rules about what we should or should
Not do on such a day, when all the victorian’s
Raise their chins in pride
And the storm plays all around
Like some fantastically wild child
And the trees along spruce hug their own white shadows?
This is a day to kiss the one I love,
To open up my hands and let her wash them,
To pray and say the world puts some things together.
It is cold and the wind sings pleasantly
And we are here so wonderfully now.

Saturday, 10 March 2018


In the few hours after work,
We create small rituals
To schematize loss—
I am waiting 12 hours for your plane to land.
What I will say,
I do not know.
 The dirty ice at the end of the block shrinks
And smoke pours into the night
Like a hot metal—
It all goes somewhere.
The cracked concrete underfoot and dead
vines tracing their history
Up our chimney. It took tears
Going down cold into a mess of hair
And me realizing I hadn’t worn a warm
Enough jacket to get me to leave manny’s house--
Big chin and unfed muscle, only small hours of quiet
Before the 4 am shift
In a house full of drunk brothers
Watching bootleg dvds.
I knew he was inside, hiding
and wondering if this would turn out ok.
Me too.  
I went to the church where some 20 jews sang
A wordless melody. They asked me
About work and I made a graceful exit
But not before pulling up my hood, wandering towards
The stained glass and mouthing words of praise,
Rocking my body with the mourners kaddish
The way I learned so long ago, in rhythmic sobs
Not even I understand. I think,
It isn’t quite time to ask
Where this will all go.
Sid is in me laughing, everybody poops
When they die.
It is suddenly march 10th and the bartenders
Are just getting their paychecks.
My phone rings with numbers I do not know.

Monday, 5 March 2018


“Charlie bit me.”
                                    “Why is this happening?”
“And it really hurt.”
                                    “Is this going to be forever?”
“And it’s still hurting.”

The woods are grey and thinned
Against a rolling sky that goes on.
The suit across from me hides a skeleton
Under little hair and fat, a few credit cards,
Ill-conceived smile designed to continue
The burial process of nervous questioning life
That last saw light in college when high on mushrooms
And wide eyed he splashed
water into his armpits and laughed
In front of his friends as it dripped down
And soaked his briefs.
Now the train is quiet except for the two Cambodian women
Bickering beside us and one of them opening
A can of seltzer.
Gravel, graffiti, warehouses, piles of disused metal.
Stopped chemical trains. Wood chips and cell-phone towers.
What is there in this world?
This morning I almost could not wake,
The dreams pulled me so down as under waves.
I slip over a blue sweater and fry eggs barefoot,
The cold tiles speaking something of life
I cannot quite make out.
The house snores.
I have never wanted to sleep so much.
There is too much time,
I did not even notice before.


here in spring the sound is quiet,
sea lions purring in the sun,
paradise ducks winding through the
mist—the mountain asks
“what can you leave behind?”
one after another that took millennia
to grow fade in the dusk and clouds.
This unsettled land with landslides
And temporary waterfalls asks—
“how can you begin again?”
whenever the rockface is
suddenly clean in a blanket of
beech trees, I see myself slipping,
grabbing hold of the wall,
the letting go—
long drop into the water.
I do not know the answers.
I cannot say what makes the water
In me run soft when I think of you
Or how in the silence
Of water passing between
Cloud topped mountains I feel
As if god and you
Are the only words left.

Sunday, 4 March 2018

spring nor'easter

By the wind and by candles,
By unexpected snow and branches
Cracking above our heads,
I find the bubble of quietness.
The day of waiting in thin-lit
Halls washes down the windows,
Memories of car tires swishing
Across the road and downed
Power-lines in the part of the city
Some people close their eyes through
Are a rich taste on my tongue
Quarter of a century poured out.
Still the still quiet after
Is very hard, not knowing
What to do with this big yearning
That reaches for the hand of the world,
Swirls my eyes green of the ocean
I feel so distant from. I am missing
Its comforting whisper in this storm.
We are just inside, creaking
Bones and floorboards struggling
To retain heat, looking out
at confused moonlight and wanting
very badly to lose this body
sometimes pleasant and sometimes
hurting wanting wanting
to dissolve like powder
in the great wind, find
my way back to a place
where the trees grow unrestricted
by concrete and water sings
its blessing into all the fruit
of the world—the houses,
the corner boys, the unused steel
and green things,
all my lovers,
and me.

Thursday, 1 March 2018


Spring rises over skin first,
Achingly over fast ice, sun slicking
And lapping up what was thinly buried.
In the woods of Pennsylvania, the trees begin
To sweat with joy, in the places behind their faces,
They begin their slow communal humming
At the rejuvenation, the rebirth of all things.
Some part of me celebrates that all of this bursts
Awake, out of darkness and miraculous,
like a lover in the morning.
And some part of me can’t.
I am thumbing a heavy green stone hung
About my neck as a reminder and I wander
Through brambles and into thick thorns who’s hands
Clutch a Styrofoam cup and empty 40.
What was desperate becomes history.
How are we to know what we lose along the way?
The dead sing through jet fuel as well as
Streamed audio-- I hear them now
In the interminable muttering of the airport.
Last night, the moon was a cook
Slowly removing his clothes when he thinks
He is finally alone. It was so sweet and harsh I could
Not look away. The world is parched tonight,
Drinking rain and light alike, wanting to be filled up.
As the nights go on, I wonder whether
The seasons sing so they might catch us along,
Asking for harmony for us. Give yourself to sadness,
This warmth seems to say. Drink it up
As if it already makes up the vast part of your body.

Wednesday, 21 February 2018


In the backyard, I wait
For the clouds to kneel before
The moon. I have stood quietly for hours
Where the workers go to catch their busses
In the rain, fumes spewing past stacks
Across the highway, where the flames arise
Within the web of machinery but do not consume.
So few know where to keep a heart.
Not me. Is it beyond Malcolm X park, after the rusted tin
Of the dome and used needles buried in the grass?
Or where Haverford meets 58th and the whole
Road system turns on itself drunkenly
While an obese woman does her oldest daughter’s hair
While her son looks on, squinting into the sun?
We whittle our thumbs away
At plastic bags and the scribbled screens
Of cellphones as the night comes,
As the night ends, as we face the day
With red rimmed eyes. Is it there, in the thousand thousands
Racing along to get –
Let me be specific.
This world is broken,
But beautifully so,
With windows in the earth
To all that we are, and all that we could be.
I squat down close to the pavement
Bare feet on bits of mica
Just outside the two windows I spraypainted,
And the light goes out,
I smell gas from the grill and the sweat in my
hair—today was 13 hours of grueling reaching,
Today was untired hoping,
Today was quite alone,
And we should say it over and over—
Certainly today I felt swollen and alive
With all the grass and unwashed uniforms,
With all the granite built into countertops
And bones into necklaces, with all the children
Still awake in their tents of linen,
And foxes licking matted hair,
And buzzing flying things circling their little lives
And all the tired hands of bartenders grazing
Glasses, with all the skin calling to other skin,
And all the hearts beating alone to keep the damn thing going.
Sometimes the waiting is more.
No tears come.
Tonight it is more darkness than moon.

Sunday, 18 February 2018

over and

This room hasn’t seen itself in a month,
Mouth open with no curtains staring down
At trash in the street. Caught on the edge of
Two cities, the wind screws its
Face into snow while I work.  Make space
Mimic the soul, make the soul make
The soul. Where do memories go
To collide with whiskey slithering
Down the throat, hushed confessions
Of desire terrible and falling on deaf ears?
I am not the one you’re looking for.
Angel’s harp on the one, the one I am not
In any shape to be getting on here--
When you’re drunk don’t hitch, like a child
Stay still in the store of whirring toys,
Know someone is coming to get you.
But out here, west Philadelphia rows
Going down to the hospital noone knows about,
Past the church with the red doors
And the church with the neon signs
And the house with vacuum cleaner advertisements painted
On its ankles that now is a drug store--
When the city grunts and groans and heaves
And keeps giving birth to kids in braids overflowing
Polka-dot tanktops, and lean bodies surging out of beaters
Crashing over each other and hitting each other with cellphones,
And a loud sax hiccupping over sissing sissing sick sicking
It should be known I am not the one. I’m
Starting to know it too.

Thursday, 15 February 2018

february 4th

I found the letter you wrote me
In the smoking wreck of my car
On the side of 95.

There was a light rain
And I was reaching around because 
No one knows what to do
When that happens.

I heard the sound
Before it almost collapsed to a point
And the front tin of the hood
Scrunched up like an accordian
Whose notes can kill you
If they go too long.

It didn’t.
You wrote that you would fight for us.
I didn’t have a proper jacket.
I was 3 hours away in white plains
But still, I wanted to curl in a ball
And feel the breeze on my back,
Let the rough voice of that towtruck
Mumble into nothing.

Wednesday, 14 February 2018

february 13th

Shaking like the holly in winter,
Spines under snow, red lips
Lingering—there she is
Every morning. Dreaming is
Supposed to be solitary, you say,
Already late to pointless appointments
Where the world has already won.
Show more of yourself. Grit your teeth
While they take the white and dance.
You try to rid
Your body of its power, like the 2am
on your knees shuddering,
But it’s in your blood.
You go out to piss in the backyard
Moon with a shadow over its face
Looking at you peculiar
As if asking
What species of heartbreak is that--
That takes the time away,
That rolls the days down a hill
Into memory without your ever moving?

The city trees bear their bones to the wind
And run out to the violet sky like some
Very slow wild thing skittering through the air.
You wish you believed in the sky,
That last free thing.
Something has drained out;
Now you are like the oak leaf in winter,
All desiccated veins and longing for spring.