Sunlight wincing through late September
fails the leaves from umber to amber, a sea
of sinking fleets.
There’s a hole in the back of my skull
where all the words seep out at night.
The sheets stare whitely for hours like a mother
waiting for a newborn’s crying to cease.
Last night I was a bald, spent hen
slung by the neck to the woodshed.
A sharp relief, a cork released, a Sunday celebration.
Come morning, there’s nothing left but the tang
of another smog-tarnished dawn. Nothing drawn
from the well but sweat and shadow.
I walk the city barefoot, barely there, shedding
paper torn in half and half again.
It’s still a dream. I’m searching for a book
to hold what’s left of me: a sea of folded fleets,
a nest of embers, a leaf letting go of its green.
Read More