They are bluer than shadows in snow.
They are bloodless as fear.
Her fingernail moons are white.
She wants to crawl into the palm
of her own hand.
She wants extra fingers to cover
the shame of her eyes.
She wants to follow her lifeline where it leads
but it plunges deeper
than the Grand Canyon.
She stands on the edge
still hoping
she can fly.
Similar Posts
Exploring each other’s
that surge of connectionwhich makes the worldseem sane,that exchange of spiritin the guise of flesh,that morning hallelujah,that hookto eternity. . . .All day I bear youbetween my legs,& in my heart.Powered by your love,there is no hilltoo high to climb,no paragraphI cannot write,no hosannaI cannot howl. . . .Shall we wear it downwith habit?Shall that…
He still wears the glass skin of childhood.
His eyes are knives.Who froze the ground to his feet?Who locked his mouth into an horizon?Why does the sun set when we touch?I look for the lines between the silences.He looks only for the silences.Cram this page under his tongue.Open him as if for surgery.Let the red knife love slide in
My love is too much-
blood, poems, babies,red needs that telephonefrom foreign countries,black needs that spatterthe pagesof your white papery heart.You would rather have a girlwith simpler needs:lunch, sex, undemandingloving,dinner, wine, bed,the occasional blow-job& needs that are neverred as gaping woundsbut cool & blueas television screensin tract houses.Oh my love,those simple girlswith simple needsread my books too.They tell me they…
Here, at the end of the world,
as if they were hearts,the hearts ooze a darknesslike india ink,& poets dip their pens in& they write.‘Here, at the end of the world,’they write,not knowing what it means.‘Here, where the sky nurses on black milk,where the smokestack feed the sky,where the trees tremble in terror& people come to resemble them. . . . ‘Here,…
We used to meet
in the same wind.It fought us up the hillto your house,blew us in the door.The elevator roseon guests of stale airfed on ancient dinners.Your room smelledof roach spray and roses.In those dayswe went to bed with Marvell.The wind ruffled sheets and pages,spoke to us through walls.For hours I used to liewith my ear to your…
These beautifully grown men. These hungerers.
They’re overdrawn on all accounts but hope& they’ve missed(for the hundredth time) the expressto the city of dreams& settled, sighing, for a desperate local;so who’s to blame themif they swim through swimming pools of twelve-year-old scotch, or fallin love with widows (other than their wives)who suddenly can’t ridein elevators? In that suburb of elms& crabgrass…