This poem was published in Interim (Vol. 20, Nos. 1 & 2, 1999).
What I Can Tell You
This apple orchard
is the instant your temper came unhinged.
This well-known novel
the instant your wife took new note
of the dark-eyed man in her physics class.
Turn left here, on the street marking
failure to understand
inability to remember
Count what you love
now count what you’ve lost:
The oxygen you inhale
is the number left over.
Cradled in a crack in the sidewalk
a beetle waits for your shadow to pass.
You darken whole minutes.
to crush the space beneath your feet
is the instant a window opens,
scattering birds from the rough sill.
Here’s a poem that was published in Nightsun (Issue #14, Fall 1994).
The Parallel Universe of Grief
In Belize a fat whore whispered to me,
I think about what music does.
Here I place one foot down and then the next,
thinking, she won’t be there,
whatever direction I take.
The woman whose child was killed by dogs
carries a whistle at all times.
Screeee she warns a bus back
and screeee she calls to the drugstore man
who eases her away with lotions.
She pierces the flesh on her husband’s arms,
displays him like a butterfly in a glass case.
Waving to passersby she points:
Jesus on the wall, baby in a box. Screeee
she calls to the public
to come see her patriarch monarch.
I place my feet together, then imagine them gone.
Transparency is my strategy now,
against I know how you feel.
Invisible, I am the wind carrying salt to your world.