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a gunpowder trail, sinuous
across the wooden plank floor sparkling
down the stairs, scarring the runner, under
the wainscot and around
the corner, you know
this trail
from a hole
somehow bored
in the wooden keg and then
comes along
and lights
from the other end

And What Happens to the People Who Come Into Our Lives and Try to Love Us

I’ve been crawling your body for weeks, seeking
scars, a signature left behind, some sort
of split where the shrapnel went in and did the skin
heal over before the metal

was removed. I’ve been trying hard to still your eyes long
enough to let me crawl inside, but I cannot quite make it before
they shift, flash, or blink tossing me off, making me grab for something
to steady, check around for someone watching

me navigate the displacement of ground underneath, my rubber knees, bare
feet grasping the stingy rubble crumbling. Crying through smoke surrounding, grey tear streaked face barely able to breath. This place is too thick
with history, more a photograph in a book of me peeping

now through a window, some people on a beach, sand in creases, twisted
hair, honey skin smoothed from wind and abrasion, smiles rising and fading, windblown loneliness, the ache for life to begin again where it’s now
stagnant and peeling, the same since last spring. Honey, I’m trying to draw

myself back to safety, inside again to the stubble on your chin, the pulsing
of your tongue, or the soft v between your fingers, but the stillness outside this reality is killing me and the wind wont stop howling your name, telling me if I cut you open I could catch a glimpse of infinity.


As the ardent moon approaches, hot and bright, melted stars smeared
behind her, instigating the night, wrecking her orbit, confusing
the seas. Should she do her best to calm herself? Smooth her dress, apply
fresh gloss, sit and pose for her eternal painting?

As the ardent moon approaches, fervent and perfervid, throwing sparks
now having scraped off her silver, she’s ruining geometry and algebra,
serpentine,incongruent, misaligned with the planets. Should she pause
and adjusther coordinates? Hold her hands and feet just so as she avoids
blinking too much in the camera flash bulbs?

As the ardent moon approaches, life swells, rises, and overflows in anticipation
of her kiss, but she only knows how to love with her fists, brushing ants from her planet, she is visibly disgusted by the crawling and clawing, striving
in the desperate attempt
to stay alive.

Of course she wants love. She is trying frantically to remember how it was she
came to be, understand the concept of freedom, stitch together the touch
of a lover’s hand, shake the bitter vagueness, make mist solid, grasp the throat
of camaradarie, squeeze tears from the soft, downy comfort
of all that was once cool and green.

Mild Sparkler Burn Healing Under a Band Aid on a Warm Summer’s Evening

Is it panorama that pulls? And landscape might
so be
an enraptured phrase, but not
all rolling hills
are magestic and not
everything in motion
is alluring.

But could it be possible on a warm summer’s
eve that the reluctant
of the willow’s leaves might
stay the friction of the
bones that eventually
ardor away?

Not Just Romantic Separation, But Also the Death of Family Members

We survive the hours between waking
and sleeping, some stylishly, some with more
money, slinking between
problems beneath
speaking passionately, purposefully gesturing,
hand on forehead, publicly worried
about others’ safety.

Some with chests heavy, heaving
to overflow regret
or rage.

Some, without thinking,
smile at the day.


She tried to make herself
smaller or drown
in the words wafting
from his brother’s wounded,
gritty mouth like
a ton of wet milkweed
fluff dropped
on her chest –
the anvil weight

His mother circled, a crow
full of poisoned rat – clawing,
clacking, waddling, preening in the dense
unkindness, kneading
her scar tissue
into shapeless, thorny


Three Hundred and Sixty-Five (Thank You)

It’s selfish for me
to think
you gentle, assign
adjectives I need, create
a snapshot
of your hands
in my mind
just to please me.
I cannot create you
from words on a screen.

grows rich outside
of reality.

Not the dirty
word love, that dry
hacking cough, scratching
the soul
in a starving
wanting desperately to please
while mostly
just needing


swollen and heavy,
overflowing, swaying, undulating,
raw, slick and dirty
in the moistness of spring,
merciless, discordant