If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
You leave the same impression
Of something beautiful, but annihilating.
Both of you are great light borrowers.
Her O-mouth grieves at the world; yours is unaffected,
And your first gift is making stone out of everything.
I wake to a mausoleum; you are here,
Ticking your fingers on the marble table, looking for cigarettes,
Spiteful as a woman, but not so nervous,
And dying to say something unanswerable.
The moon, too, abuses her subjects,
But in the daytime she is ridiculous.
Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand,
Arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity,
White and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide.
No day is safe from news of you,
Walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.
“Like a dead lake the dark envelops me.”
the medium between
complacency in vengeance
take me and
stuff me in a bag,
in the rapture of a girl
first kissed behind the ear;
never once being touched there before
and tell me you’ll carry me across
the whole oceanif that’s somewhere
I need to be today.
I’m laughing and
you say the most ridiculous
(and you turn to me)
you say to me:
this will never end.
“the blue book”
“Only in Marco Polo’s accounts was Kublai Khan able to discern, through the walls and towers destined to crumble, the tracery of a pattern so subtle it could escape the termites’ gnawing.”
–Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities
“And some things have the nerve to be just getting started.”
the theme this year is handmade
I start by slaughtering
your brothers in front of you
to see if you can stand it.