this is what goes on the last page


we fall, as the year
into december, so
wetly longed-for.

the rush
that calls our quiet
is the absence

of sirens.
the rails we walked
for so long

now blink
into forever,
a smoke-curl

on january’s horizon.
your left hook
is useless

against the coming
that kind

of hardness
can only melt
or burn.


She perches restfully
against a January morning
whose ground is still
cobwebbed with leaf fall, shivering
as the sun goes down
in his eyes, their fever’s fire
dark and gone.  Swaddled
in the quilt where they had
sought refuge together
from the bitter cracks
in the old stone walls,
his limbs now shake no longer,
consigned to an earth his soul will never
know and a cradle-sized casket
set two feet deep
from daylight, the distance
between headstone
and footstone not half the length
of their old kitchen table.
The wind sings nursery rhymes
that settle deep in her marrow
with an awful finality; there
is an ache in her breasts and
a hole two feet deep
in the place where her heart
should beat.

left for dead

folded up into a puddle of
blue-stained nightmare
she woke from the bottom
of the bathtub, shivering.

strange because
the tap was turned
all the way to the right,
streaming showerhead rain over
her best dress and dreams
hitherto undisclosed;

maybe it was the nakedness
that caused the goosebumps.