My head is in New York today, stuck in that brasserie on Park the sun up and out and cold a little wind, but the promise of something better The light down and through avenues and the store where, years ago, I bought a mattress pad to comfort myself; Vendors selling plants below the Union…

I’m sorry for you drinking and loud death on your side. the rolls of your life’s feeding frenzy laying upon one another and you. an outstretched hand is a little too little for the size of you and not quite able to grasp and carry the shame you have to hold.

wouldn’t i crack up to the surface find a root to swing from and then again climb the tree to find the view if this meant air and breath

I’m fascinated by the dying beetles, red backed and spotted with their wings still. In the warmth, they spin in the open and die in the warmth. They’re on the sills of the windows when the curtains hang back. They’re on the ground, the edges of the rug, little spaces between grooves. I can’t help…

I remember when we drove, the windows down, between the mountains and the grassy plains. my shoulders were bare that fall and the hillside rainbow trees where melting. The little car, heavy with my whole life in it, groaned a bit but didn’t complain through tunnels or anywhere. And, our hands we held. One driving…

I thought of stepping out naked today under a sea made skeleton cloud To cross the yard and get the mail Bare feet on fallen flowers The birth of spring so obvious 3-7-08