The Brooklyn Rail

Is it Dreamier Where You Are?

I walk among the hidden vestibules
On a perfectly flawed mission of getting older.

Soft white words are emblazoned on the sky.
To guide me? No, the thrashing of a dispirited

Angel, a trail of stones strangled
In the grassy wind. My gradecard.

Salutes the falsehood of this planet.
My errors are silver in the twilight.

I truly intended to unravel the stories
That children have carved on soap,

Penumbra of ancestries properly wired,
While someone sings on a lawn chair

Directions for my departure:
Jump through this door,

Our collective sadness is buzzing with opportunity,
Ten thousand bees lighting on ice.

 

A Rumpled Fortune to Live and Die By

A clotted parable on a flag on a-dune.

Your sinews rotate until they are numbers.

Your song is glib, your sacramental boo-hoo
Attacks me.

Fear of silence appears or reappears.

This is the silhouette of your father’s chassis.
This is the window.

Revile your loaf, the paper says.