No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
Three decades later, it's all askew: everything your family owned given away after your mother passed. The gray carpet with foot tracks Worn into it, replaced by hardwood with gaps between the planks.
A Neighbor Upstairs
James speaks to me About the locks, or the holes in the steps. That is as much as we know. Both of us walk through our days arranging Objects, or cleaning,
All day long bandits and schoolboys floated there, just above the ground...
as Ogo was just a simple cat after all but since then he never could forget these eyes staring straight at him like from the other side of life
Arrangements
I will belong to that city I die in, mourned in that language.
In the prairie across from My mother’s apartment, We find, in the moonlight, Bones, laying humble On the black ground, More ash than dirt, From the controlled burn The firemen had to set.