More on: Poetry

I drink in the morning & it is beautiful

Mass livid w/ purple, pale yellow, bruise swelling over the
Outer Banks & the Carolinas, do Tígers swim in the deep
foaming blues off the bight?

The ghosts of our dead can only watch as we dance.

Say you could only count to six.
Say seven didn’t exist—no Sabbath, no holy

rest, no end to week.

He is sixty-four this year,
near the sea, where we
find him, serious, scrounging

Invention loves desire
but desire brings home war.

There was a man that night on the lovers’ moon
walking as if on water

the world’s ripe belly open in its bloodless way

They had left about forty crows
in the conference room, as a test.