lust poem no.31

bedroom scene no.3

there is the air
from stale radiator to pool
over bare skin
and open sill.

there is the lament
of a passing train
this side the river. there
is firewood stacked
beside the door, but no

goddamn snow.
it weighs like the hesitation
in her eyes that he
can’t see: that she
is tired of sad poems,

their puckered footsteps like
icefall on the second day
of spring. all ragged clouds
& slush & cold
metaphor. her skin

is forgetful. his hands
are on the small of her.
they weigh like silence,
like stone, like
remembering, brim

with words left
over which long
for un-houred mondays, for
un-hung evers, un-strung lives,
for words which long.

what i mean when we talk about the weather


i am writing the same poems
i was before i met you, where,
raining, i was then too pre-

sprung and ungainly and in-
congruent, lofting
plastic smiles

and polysyllabic line-
breaks despite the yellow
of my skirt. alas, you say,

and i like the letters in the word,
how they spell wings
in other tongues, but we

are far from flying,
drown down in our
respective sadnesses,

can’t remember
conjugations or cloud
patterns or what it was

to love easy. it must be
snowing hard, still,


strangely tinted dandelions


this is how spring comes,
stripes of green between

herring-boned brick, fern-fronding,
bare-armed, broken-eternitied;

mindful. (i am) convalescent,
cognizant of the dragons

that still lean in, hungry.
they bite at me, at

wrists and cheeks and eyes,
blindfully, so that my shape

is not the shape of others, ever.
after dinner, your stereo

won’t work; you ask me to sing, but
i’ve got only that song

where the girl is leaving and the boy
must drop everything to catch her.

(and that is
not us, after all.)

dragons, as everyone knows,
hate the sun. while you are gone, i sit

on the winter-warmed stoop
bare-armed, watching spring come,

scars palely fade, wondering
how this song will end.