Bees are tactile spots of disbelief in a field of air. The idea of them is almost exhilarating. Amid the dogwoods of nearby suburbs, banks in acute distress are closed. Phenomena in the wake of those who are cold become pellucid. The principle of a held breath is no more a god than a person altered by existence.
White Tone
I think I prefer now being unloved
and listening for my footsteps in the dark.
Bill
Bill said: In the evening, the sky gets all red and soft behind the fence near the crapyard on Last Street where Lorraine’s mother flew. I wanted to give it the twice-over, but Lou wouldn’t take me. Lou is a prick.
The Man On the Stairs
It was a tiny sound but it woke me up because it was a human sound. I held my breath and it happened again, then again; it was footsteps on the stairs. I tried to whisper, There’s someone coming up the stairs, but my breath was cowering, I couldn’t shape it.
Summer Breeze
I have in the past diluted my true views because
they are my feeling and thoughts—
years that’s all it was—
Dirty Blues
spike face crow
come out of no
and right hand
sky go down
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