I retrofitted a shelter.
Burned driftwood.
Drove a gash across the country,
slept in the car, dreaming,
of you. I was in love
and erasing the gap.
I drew a line
and watched
it shake.
Dark rose
of the afternoon,
spillway into the delta,
I wept, blistering. Pinned
photos to a clothesline—
and leapt into each one.
Wedged in my plantar fascia’s rivers of tissue, the tip of a spike from the locust tree—some long as a boning knife—whose thorn ...
What I want from you has little to do with sex, though it, like wine and bread, rests on the table between us: the curse that escapes your craned neck; the way you ...
It was a spectacular spring: sparrows bickering in the trees, the street carts smelling of syrupy cashews in front of the Jewish Museum— you bought flowers, said Hi to ...
