the last thursday
hoary sky bowed with crows
and layers of mist
tidal taillights wash under
the bridge, towards the city


a thousand bulbs, bare and blinking
carve a stage in the red nape of night;
wattage blooms to eviscerate
black-coated passersby,
dissect our careful insincerity


his toy trains
live Sisyphus lives,
dun-colored ring on the floor:
hear his whispered whistle as they step
thousands of times into their own footprints


the dream with the gun
loose skirts, she pries you from the floorboard
with her wicked steel tongue

wake torn between the morning light
and the fanged exhilaration of wolves


diatomic scale -
cloud of midges
dense as fission

grating kiss of microscopic jaws
one hundred pearl buttons, split


cells can't see sickness,
they keep on, mitosis and nuclei
twining fingers of duplication;
wake up from a week-long coma with
howard hughes fingernails, rip van winkle beard


let the dish hover
in midair, the faucet frozen
ribbon of water
his tiny tears hot and still
hold your tongue, hold his shaking sobs


in the kitchen, sunlit,
I held your wooden bowl:
edges rough-hewn, touched to smoothness,
satin inside lost to the gouged thatch of use


hang your head over the rail
to watch your sputum split the river
and become the river

your spit is warm and you are alone:
a human excuse


the sudden streetend thrust
of brick and concrete sills crumbling
under black glass windows -
a secondary apparition,
four boys crane their necks from the stoop


when the hurricaine
falls silent beyond the storm door,
green eerie slash of sunlight:
momentary stillness feigns death
like the white belly of a snake


mid-morning sunlight
slants through the chain link
like the fat blade of a cleaver;
a falling knife has no handle,
I have no name for these hours