Molest the Dead
By Poetry Issue 64
for A.M. Fine I Molest the dead. Take from them their buried honey. Envy them their past perfect tense, their had done and hurried gone. Harry them, for bars of iron cannot deter their passing. Hate, heat, hoar cannot injure their integument nor corrupt what worms have gowned and mastered with their ferried van lines…
Read MoreEnormous Holdings
By Poetry Issue 74
All this day: a gift of abstraction. The trees sway with it, murmuring box this up, this fifth day of this fifth month, as if to say, You’ll need it when you’re gaping like a fish for kindness, for this day gave you emptiness and the permission to feed yourself by choosing not to fill…
Read MoreTo Jenya on First Noticing the Dog’s Bowl of My Imagination
By Poetry Issue 76
In all this wind I’m sure you’ll find something empty, an unsent package or the edge of a glass. Perhaps you’ll come back cradled, released to your barest parts. My emptiness loves yours. Can you hear it? As grace and distraction, our many selves bend in order to sing. You’d tell me the better to…
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