No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
He landed in the slush pile for sale with her and the glad
bags, the stars & the moon—Do I tell, do I tell, do I tell?— They’ll tell you
I think we are not meant to capture this brief visit from an ancient God of song and war.
She feared the jumping spiders were dead sitting so still at the top of their cage.
I once wanted a treehouse in a backyard, a ladder leading up to safe square freedom.
I overhear a love story of seafaring Phoenicians.
At bedtime, during stay-overs, Listerine became gin Bathroom doors stayed locked as we kept our mouths full Pretended to savor the taste of liquor The sink counter, our night-time bar and place Where we picked up our men.