because while some truths lend themselves to equations, others are best described in verse

Posts tagged “love

If poems were fortune cookies

You’ll be better off, they’d say: a room of your own in bed,
even listening for the phone, crumbling cheetohs alone in bed.

Stickily I finger—no one’s home– the remote again,
mirror’s hard lessons lessened by what’s overthrown in bed.

Each season leaves dimpled bruises like Daphne’s flesh,
more pillows mounded like silicone in bed.

The morning sky blushes remembering
all the lands we discovered, places we’d flown in bed.

Tattooed arm slung snoring over rounded hip—
look how softly we’ve grown in bed.

Hands held across shattered glass table,
night’s fight shoved under by what’s still sown in bed.

To hell with what we were taught about hospital corners,
restless feet lash in misery—covers blown in bed.

Open-windowed sirens go wailing unheeded;
day’s guilt a deadweight sunk like stone in bed.

When you close your eyes, doctor,
what sins do you atone in bed?

(When you close your eyes, doctor,
what sins do you condone in bed?)


on the day lightning struck the Vatican, i

roses, 1.1

was drinking wine &
thinking about penitence,
thumbing through possibilities
of ever after. i have known much
of bleeding, after all, of

bea(u)tification, and now
it’s Ash Wednesday, as they say
in the French, and all
the red roses are gone
from my hair, and it’s

raining but
we still dream in blades and
villanelles and other vague
heart shapes.
to our own

very great surprise
we have survived the night,
came through in stereo,
with beads on, and
glowing.


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
cold.
that kind

of hardness
can only melt
or burn.