When it comes to the underworld
and the fragility of guesswork, 
what makes us think the dead 

The door had a double lock, 
and the joke was on me. 
You might call it protection 

He disappeared, often, even as he was speaking,
though he could finish those sentences
from which he had disengaged himself,

Lady of the two feathers; the Nile where your shoulders
should have been, the way I was born out of your head
whole, out of your wig-crown and frozen oneeye; limestone

Down from the mountains of Appalachia
and the highs of new love
I’ve come across the extended monotonies

We knew he was dead
because the dead don’t smile
unless someone works hard

She was thinking it was time
to be naked again, to take something off

There came a time when she found pleasure
in saying the word pussy, alert to see whom it shocked

My neighbor was a biker, a pusher, a dog
    and wife beater.
In bad dreams I killed him

It’s vanishing as you speak, the soul-grit,
the story-fodder