More on: Poetry

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.

It’s only a blast of gunpowder that loves
to say its own last name

Love is
a dying into only.

The recordings of jazz pianists are revised by a magnetic field.