More on: Poetry

What was it he carried when he left / if not the dreams of those he’d touched?

-—They brought a woman who had been caught in adultery, placed her in their -—midst, and said to him, “Teacher, in the Law, Moses commanded us to stone -—such women. What do you say?” … -—Jesus bent down and wrote with his finger on the ground.   What he made of dust became me. I…

sorrow is unsafe when it is real sorrow.

There is no more / story to tell— / except I had / not died.

The world is too scary and the children don’t care. / They don’t care because of the bombs and the fear of bombs

When the peonies bloom, come over.

The shore is brailled by detritus

Ambulatory, patterned hours, the cell’s
circumference, countable cinder blocks, the darkness,
the lock, the tick of a wristwatch through midnight and beyond.

What he saw both entertained and startled him:
his head and face repeated in a corridor
of bizarre, ever-shrinking iterations,
a duplicate geometry of selves