Then we could ride all day and yet 
not reach the farthest edge of our demesne,
its slow hand clap of grouse

He’s gone from him forever,     and ever since he’s sought
his lips on the lips of every     boy he goes to bed with,
wanting to fool himself         into thinking those are the very

A year after he left I thought of the day he’d been 
sick and I’d cut my then-husband’s hair 
to cheer him up. First I combed it, 

A baby’s head is fragile, 
                       pale as an egg and thin. 
Hit the brakes 

In 1981 
          in a hotel gift shop outside Phoenix, AZ, 
a little girl stood by the postcard rack, turning it gently. 

It’s that feeling again:
pinecone going
wristbone, phone, eye

At your center: 
spectacles to sharpen sight,
wake of two white birds’ liftoff,

The thread of the story fell to the ground, so I went down on my hands and knees to hunt for it. This was at one of those patriotic celebrations, and all I saw were imported shoes and jackboots.

When I finally took power in the Nomenclature, simply by outlasting my rivals, never arriving early or too late at the meetings, repertoire of sage nods, my mind had distanced itself from the world. I no longer knew to whom I was talking, or the topic, though I was certain of myself. Hunger and desire lasted, savage as in boyhood. It was the names that flew away, leaving a maze of empty nests.

The whole country is in a duel and we want no part of it. 
They see us ride, they say
all you men going the wrong direction.