Taking in: water, meat,
darkness, light.

Falling down: body, rain,

Immunity: no one.

I too saw the white hand
lifting to its open mouth
a piece of brightness;

tasting it.


Chasing Down

We won't stay young and wait
for love; who has time to linger
for a crippled dog, the passing snail?

While everyone is dreaming there
are quick wolves chasing down
the slow deer, the unsuspecting bull.

Noiseless night, a pillow for the head,
has schedules to keep, cages to leave
as shadows shorten toward the woods.


The Absentee Father

Blindness from smoke,
mist and fog, rather than light
the heart moved forward
into the wall. Where else
could a daughter go
to find her father?

Giving Up the Ghost

I promised fidelity, briefly
wearing nothing at all. In my garden,
there are thorns that prick the soul.

How true are flowers? False
as rivers straighten then coil;
nature being the perfect whore. Lovely
for a season, then, winter-dead.

You've known of treachery before:
your earnest prayers unanswered
or the body fails before it wants to.


The drinking glass is cold; sometimes
life is like that. Wine, cranberry liquid,
rich as blood. Often, we lose them both.

Bread and butter for the soul. Toasted.

A tiny bit of spinach caught between
the teeth, unattractive. Death should be
so lovely. Where's the meat? Still roasting
on the grill.


What Wolves Swallow

The way is taken. I am becoming
the broken bone regurgitated;

each sharp piece cuts the throat,
the septic belly bloating. This is

the way of interruption, the path
that turns the most; careful what

you eat, where you choose to go.
By which I mean, specifically

the skeleton without its coat.


The Killing Season is Over

As if instinctive, retreats
in blue, submerged,
the unlucky. Soon lifeless.

Then, red night; the inside
of a devil's veil. Cold arrests
resistance. Accepts an end

to violence, a shift,
dismounting of the rider
from the wreckage.