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Poetry

Cured to permanent gown, a mineral
seep—all tears, all weep. The lick I am.

The lips I’ll crimp in the swap
of elements—the more of them,

the more I melt. My backdrop
old smoke in the shape of tents,

my city most flagrant in absence—
gutted cavity under the stilted SOS of stars.

I have been sustained by distant fires.
I have harbored desire for deciduous places.

I put everything I loved behind me.
If you kiss me, the taste of drowning.


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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