from Live from the Woodley Park Marriott, Washington, DC
Wickily days aburn with a rumorous delight.
Days shaking one’s finger until it feels fat like a sausage.
The various by way of the vague.
The wild success of a nothing doing day.
Four blocks up Connecticut
over the Cleveland Bridge
is the zoo:
if you imagine the animals are happily
caged it is easier to be one.
I can’t keep enough open to harm, the mind woodens.
Shakespeare’s Thought kills me that I am not thought.
All answers are flesh.
A working title of “Accounting in the Key of Dusk:”
in a window, a pocket
of dark air to breathe,
and its tiny penumbra: the sometimes light
parsed from dark—toll and ring and after-ring—
this odd, good fit for the falling through.
Author Discusses Poems