Blue tulips in April are mine.I have claimed them all as my own.I allow them to cleave the groundyou watch them grow from,every act of agriculturea wayward rebellionbeneath a forgiving sun. I am at this moment the devil’s giftat communion, the air you takeas you swallow bread and wine. Divine is the art you attemptwith blades and vases, an army of colors,when the only one that concerns me...
Damn the will. The day’s blotterhas given up the dead:a girl’s name and alleged act of treason.A wooden chair for her to sit,should her location be revealed.The plume, a plane, a vintner’s glass,the sprocket in a mechanic’s bag of tricks.I’d rather the search befor something regal than the alternative,a girl in a faded blue dress and a stitchof remorse along the hem. Her...
Three years ago, before the separation,hate-spattered yellow, Sherwin Williams, the boundary of our bodies growing jagged,then dashed, to suggest disputed territory. I imagine you sleeping with the same intensityof a squinting cat. You are not asleep, yet things go more literally, smoothly,as when the fret at the foot of the floor grieves openly, the way morphine spiggles out the door and down...
Before this, I was a cloud on good authority. I didn’t have the heart to settle for anything less than full iceberg against low hung sky. She shatters the fence post from fist to eye and back again. The man who operates the chipper ride: No need to keep your hands inside at all times. A prayer for more blind, less vision in the time it takes for an hour to pass. The better part of an...