When I was twelve, 
My tennis coach asked me 
To pose for him after practice.

I’m tired of life and its troubles.
Whoever lives as long as I have or will
grows weary: it’s inevitable.

The women examined you with furrowed brows, looking as though they had been toasted by years of sun.

If the Emperor smiles
a thread falls that cuts

I want color to braid,
to bleed, want song 
to fly to flex to think

Here there are small animals 
foraging and content
Perhaps this is what’s called 

The winter sun says fight.
The arctic blasts say fight.
This polar world is flat

Bald man smoking in bed,
Naked lightbulb over his head,
The shadow of his cigar 

Grandpa loved crawling
Under the skirts of his mother’s friends
As they sat on the porch

Children’s fingerprints
On a frozen window
Of a small schoolhouse.