All time is wasted. I withered mine to space, nights imperfecting formulas. Elegance as :—: as being both the church and funk of always :—: always a rumpled coverlet we can’t imagine sharing, having shared. I can’t turn to the way flowers wilt, immediate impulse, toward peonies’ pink lilt, their…

I ask the tree to register Me and it stings— What for…? Some ridiculous itch Nibbles, hails hate Hiding plain, insight A twitching Claw-gripped pendant Fixed against its Bark lapels. A glimpse and this Network exposed, An almost Ancient urge to lick or for A loam and petrichor Scent, s’il…

The angel made of brush dance sinew dances color up through strokes of muscle: orange from arches up through knees to mid thigh, red from hips to heart   out the shoulders spilling over into wings, a faceless pink brown flutter of head. Silvermask, left-handed, raises his shooting arm sheepishly…

Starry night as texture, a wisp above the grave Of the pink boned dead child. Pink as Implantation blood. Faint. A small tan coffin, Its corners like a black girl’s nails two years back. The wisps might form themselves into an Eye above his head, but don’t— Lush glyph of…

High left corner zinnia sun                                                                        black and white above          the tilt…

July 16, 2003 In other places, slick, smooth plastic clatter across family formica tables, bright white bars and black divots so round and perfect they might hold plump orange caviar, a smattering of pepper and sea salt, or seat for pungent capers. But across the burroughs, in Far Rockaway, Bensonhurst,…

When serving birth Summon the womb Open every window every door to the house to the barn to the room Let them come on through those cold rains, rot-lonely flies all the waspers of this world Tell them now is the time And when your job is other when they’ve…