January 2008

Impossible to wield
The acreage of the fabric that unfolded,
Slung from his shoulders like a crumpled field:
The distance from one Christmas to the next
When he was only seven
Was aching there; a foreign city flexed
Among the...

Fleeing his clubs, dull honors, wives, the ageing Hardy
hunches down in his potting-shed with his thumbtip-fumbled, fine-
printed seed catalogue’s inflorescences—
peripherally glimpsing the oxygenless blue line

of the fleur-de-lys scaling his inner wrist;
his chalky knuckles, his...

this is the track I've had on REPEAT all afternoon:      she is butterfly
brilliant riband, rice flour face, silken, even her voice a sashed kimono

                             if I were foolish like her:   
                                          but aren't I foolish like her
                            ...