Alone, which has grown to mean without you,
        I sweat in our old bed. In the bay, the storm’s orchestra tunes. 
Thunder, and my next expression is one of yours.

    At the center of the city I come upon a hill, at the top of which is a very large bird. I see it resembles an eagle. Though it’s about 14 stories high, it’s as docile as a rabbit. Its foot, I see, is tied to a stout nearby building. The rope used for this purpose is thick, the knot alone having the bulk of a cottage, or a pleasant bungalow.

It is the sort of clock that in ringing might waddle across a dusty dresser and fall into a drawer of luminous socks. The sort that might escape, given half a chance.

I knew the dick size of every boy in my grade,
my measure being how it filled my fist
when I squeezed it through their jeans. In return

Look how the snow drifts
       flare on the Soracte’s slopes
—there, straining branches

I take meticulous care in noticing the ground
under my feet
as i walk slowly

Jean Vu 
Lived in Paris 
Rue Rimbaud 

We are able to erase the smoke
because of our ability to predict the future
as it were

Now I am married there is much to despair
now that I seem to need to.
By the powers vested in me, I am

Aware of all this mutability, I ask what does not change:
The longing of the heart to know is what I find myself saying.