Preposition in 6/4
Scheherazade, night so longwith the story I tell myselfto help winter pass, could be five ormidnight save for the moonlow over the Navy Yardsinging its time of day. driven over
Scheherazade, night so longwith the story I tell myselfto help winter pass, could be five ormidnight save for the moonlow over the Navy Yardsinging its time of day. driven over
“a labyrinth is not a maze, in which confusion is the aim.”¹ the path was always inevitable, never quite chosen. the unavoidable moon reveals blood in my mouth, the Pleiades
in spring we come across a peeling house and fill it with pots and pans. sometimes I make noise with a wooden spoon. you fix shingles and leaks, tinker, turn
my hands still smelling of garlic, I leave early, walking uncertain on my own two feet I imagine birds picking at the suet somewhere else, on a street with
(after 8-bitfiction) you sink your sensible feet in the dirt while we talk about the heat presuming the boundaries of the court are drawn there like sowed beds, the summer
after Andrew Wyeth‘s Squall the piping plovers hopped along the time I went birding, cold and wet dispositions fret, slickered yellow hiding behind dunes pock-marked by rain, canvas tote bags dampened,
after Giorgio de Chirico’s I Shall Be There – The Glass Dog I shall be there baring the paunch of my stomach bearing my heart in an open box as
aching feet are forgotten once I sit on a red banquette. we’ve gone to Russia by way of the MTA. my mother would tell me to cross my ankles, not
balmy air sneaks its way through the gaps in the cable-knit, in this finicky colony housing confused birds and the carnage of melting snow. people sharing happinesses, incredulous – it’s
(for Siv) Fall Keeping shadows at arm’s length while the streetlights still flicker is the only way I know that I understand the dark. While the streetlights still flicker I