The marble stares the way desire waits.
after dinner we take a drive
into the night
Blanket of Glassy Ash
In Ocean Is A Mystery
Wild Flowers Out of Gas
Do you remember? then how lightly dead
seemed the moon when over factories
it languid slid like a barrage of lead
above the heart, the fierce inventories
of desire.
The sugar wants blood
I was born on my birthday on a weatherless week
The calendar bulged wisely in the sky
Me, with your strange choice in adjectives
You, with your muscular teeth and clockwise vagina
A librarian
from birth, Brenda was
An avid collector of dust.
She had no horses but thought
she did.
The church gave her a choir because she sang
like a bird and looked like a bird and Brenda was a bird.
She owed us so many poems.
In lieu of
flowers, send Brenda more life.
You may wake up. I hope you do.
Today is your birthday and you did not win.
Today is your birthday and I am not dead.
Today is someone else’s birthday to me now, and we are going to the sea.
You’ve not been introduced to the creatures in your eyebrows