More on: Poetry

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.

In the corner of the kitchen window,
a crane fly is caught in a spiderweb.

It has not stopped struggling
all afternoon.

  Inside,                  small fish

             may nest             till they grow big                        (inside the bell).

Unfaith. Is how that which. Without which. Is nothing.
Is nothing before and then after.

all the grandmothers who couldn’t let go
are given a sword and some kind of new eyes