No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
I. at issue is the glass between us. opaque language, unhoneyed eyes, ears cottoned in steam. now to stop the words, to prevent a crash, to make us admit we were ever simpler: my fingers on the knot of a tie your breath untying the mirror.
Few noticed Icarus that day, Heard from high clear air long unlucky cries, Saw with hard squinting, disbelieving eyes One splash after a ballet of disarray...
Your grey eyes cut around the room, following light as if movement or prey, dashing in and under growth, gathering places otherwise unseen into your periphery.
We need a foreign country to set us free, Even one so poor, where no one cares.
Going to mass should be dangerous—
I saw god at the dentist’s, splattered on the chair– a discarded fish head. Jaw forced open, eyes closed shut.