my mother has escaped love

my mother has escaped love. which is to say, she and my father turn 60 years old in june as a married couple, so she understands that love is no mere enthusiasm; no chased thing,  no source of youth,   no misting degrees of want,    no harbor pursued,   no turned-up sun,  no significant fortune, no public poetry. we've all blasted it to pieces,...

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savannah

                      i.       how comes the muse friday night and he is struck; this poet, who ponders an image that has arrived to rest in his mind pulsing with mortality and blood. thinking: how comes the muse to the latched-upon artist? that he is vigorously transfixed by the aesthetic eye...

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struck, then new

i was struck by the girl whose visage and whose posture and whose offered smells were so violent and so severe that i forgot everything about how to behave. (behave! that terrible and vexing word that rinsed from my pores the real dirt of Truth and left me so much dead in youth!) i was at once, in her presence, sent back to the nocturnal leaves of autumn, to the merciless stations of deep spring, to the sharp silver patter of summer rains. true...

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swing

she wears galaxies of memorabilia upon the dangerous hip; adorned as if awakened at night in order to hover through the day. the psychic factions of her limbs can and will call forth a sort of sheer fabric of passion and i am obliged toward such ornaments, with which i find the causal bruises of her strengthened agency: she swings in a hair-knotting wind of forced attention,...

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knowing

i'm done with the vibrant glow of the bulb in the night and how i relied upon it to speak to me when clamoring to safety. the dark did not change my trajectory inasmuch as the light stole from me my compass. and the fear i felt at times was never vanquished by anything more than when i closed my eyes. i don't reach out in the dark anymore, but rather plunge forth into it, eyes shuttered, with knowing in my hear...

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