More on: Poetry

listen my body is a clayware jar

say the moon is high in the corner
and swerves as the moss deepens

we are points, less than, less than straight lines

Saint Peter, our hometown is freezing pigeons this December
when our region hasn’t had not one snow,

…this sort of disease like a tide of death
carrying disaster

Back there somewhere the blood of christ
is my vaccination a sign on the window

Moods
are painted dark blue on the blue East River.

Tying my shoes thinking

I’m lucky I can tie my shoes,

But a landscape
is only itself. Our grief
consists in this, and our hopeless joy.

I lift up my eyes. The sky
is layered with pinks and reds,

an octave of shades, like drawn
blood set aside in a glass tube.