we spent seven years
planning our route
thieved maps and charts
marked the dangerous spaces
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Poetry
we spent seven years
planning our route
thieved maps and charts
marked the dangerous spaces
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Your widow came in to the bank today
Waving the certificate of your suicide around;
I go
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The summers aren't so lonely on Plum Island.
It's me, the plum trees, the plum birds,
and the
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dreaming in San Francisco is like
dreaming inside a cloud
where the promises of our parents
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Flocks in flight,
Murmurations
Of rippling ribbons
Against rain-full skies
Above the
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window seat
facing forward
racing westward on rails;
every twist a next vista
the last
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With a bit of whistling and a roll of the wrist
I slipped into some rusty overalls to go
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I would stand as a child and watch my mother light candles on Friday nights.
She would closer he
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At Burger King at night,
We are a few scattered
Among the tables, waiting
Or eating out of
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"Now we will find
what the rest have left behind."
—Lil Green
There, not here, is
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if you concentrate
hard enough, sometimes
the fourth wall breaks—
fading just a moment
to
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