Even I can see the flowers are up. I take
like wild vine to my bed. And may I have
a word with the miser measuring out my joys.

Six years have gone since I have been loved
by you. All appearances have been more or less
phantom. There is a boy, now, applying for your job.

I do not live in Niger, but once
a man begged me to stop living
my life in Long Island City

In the beginning is the paper, blank and void.
That’s the way you buy it, the unwritten “word”.
The clean slate of your law-abiding citizen

Describe a scene from your daily life.

The sky has come down around us like a shroud.

Use plain language.

I forgot to tell you my husband
died. He was in Spain and something
strange happened with alcohol or water. He loved them

vive morte ma seule saison
lis blancs chrysanthèmes

The forest comes down at night. She waits until the last tram has left, then sets off. She meets the drunks—with eyes half-shut they pass through her, they stumble but don’t curse. The forest walks steadily on. 

That light behind the Olympics at supper hour—
it takes a sky of clouds from here to there
to spot the sun, seam and snow just right.

Bob’s brother was born invisible, but through chance we can only call miraculous, he survived the delivery room and those dangerous early days on the planet. In fact, no one noticed him, although Bob’s mother did feel a second squeeze and jolt ten minutes after Bob was out. The