More on: Poetry

The hunt has been unsuccessful, as even / the dogs know.

The pointing instinct has always been controversial.

Sometimes he is back in our house in Anaheim, / sometimes with his family in Taiwan.

I’m not even dressed before the pope
asks me for a lifelong yes.

The cashier read it and then handed me,
a ten-year-old boy, a pack of smokes.

Simeon and Levi went alone among the moaning
streets—think of it: every Canaanite man draped,
groins leaking through their bindings, gangrene

coming for some.

the history of trees opens with a long stretch
of uninteresting happiness.

I was not allowed inside, so I pressed my
palm to the glass; my lifeline, written over
by lattice.

Up the mountain light rushes.
So am I, following its dark future.