I snap back as though bound to a long tendon. Nearer to you somehow.
I wade through the listening ivy, leaves stopping the sun, holding it out: SEE
In a drawing I once made after falling sleep, in collusion with it, my lips (?) just
about meet the soil. I am grateful for the fine Caesarian roots brushing past my
thighs. Murals are thirst-bare, clamoring as gorgonia fans. The pasteurella sea and
something else above ground, crammed together at eye-level, crab grass, brass
chains. A mouth maybe.
I act as though I want to say SORRY into the pocket of your Adam’s apple. Oxygen
is pathological as an afternoon at the races, subway doors opening under Market.
I contain a soil three stories deep.
I AM CLOSED FOR THE EVENING
TRY BACK AGAIN LATER
Field of yellow vectors, one leaf, one field over each eye, medicinal, scented of thyme
I am nearer to knowing how he fought back his tears.
Author Discusses Poems