Hand in hand we held each other on a South Beach pier The blue-green sea as dear as jade As warm as our hands inside one another The blue-green sea washed the beach below us The blue sky washed the air we breathed There we were, awash in hope That the stranger whose hand we […]

Straining for a picture, I remember your face — the winter I said I’d never describe. This lie remains provokingly stable, vacant not with space, but with pain. And it’s ruthless that it comes as no surprise, freezing news, ruin, you, or whoever I confess to the dark. Going back over what was done, there […]

Pulse and phase feed the optic line a steady blue, down to where moss falters at the marble breach. Stones stricken from their primary merit trail a residue of fleck and silicate flake, while serial gleams teach the squint not to follow too closely behind. Lacking a stemhold the spine heeds the shiver.

strophe I’ve been here before. Last week, at poolside in Boulder, a man lay on his back reading about spiritual themes in the poems of Wang Wei. But that’s what’s done in Boulder. A young woman dove into the pool, breaking its placid surface only to rise from that surface again exclaiming:“I’m angry; I’m enlightened; […]

But what was the question? I didn’t think we heard it all over the loudspeaker, the morning announcements padded between “Rapper’s Delight” and “Free Bird,” and you with your head down in home room on a stack of grubby books. Oh no, it’s new all right, fresh off the rack with the tags still attached. […]

Teal dulls the subtleties. The coral white heat too close to stereo so court and sparked blue milk crate diadems. Deer Park held imitation “Only once in a great while” A canopy thinning the vivid thing.

Though bloweth smoke, and often from Archambeau’s mouth. In truth. Yet this: did actual happen, did. While he sat in smell of riverfunk and barbecue, by the rank cold sunspiked Mississip. In his black jeans black, his jacket too. To read: of his big black book. Until. The griz-beard bicycist sallies up, Quix-ote, and old, […]

The emulsion paper, a tarn, develops still life is spectacle and motion: the silt solution settles in the bath between work and exposes what was before.