first day of ground war, 1990
I'm standing on the outside
of an old white house. My eyes
look out the circles absent
of dust on the windows,
and my feet recover themselves
with soot. I walk in full
sunlight knowing the colors
of silence, the awkward, wooden
wings lifting and falling.
The violin plays sadness, my darling. A man returns from a place a bomb was dropped. The world will never again be what it once was. I arrange the pieces and retell…
Here is where my heart beat outside my body. I could not stop ten years of motion, whole days swallowed by speed, hours lost and a mangle of names, Nick's, Munch's, Big…
In a wide room of rain smells a gardenia bush grows between the floorboards. 2 AM: he stands, bends, sticks his thumb between the bricks in the road. Open window, empty attic…
There is a drought in the mountains and valleys of my writing room where Santa Ana winds whip through the window and leave dust balls that cower in the corner. My wastebasket…