medicine hat

so you see that while treading water in
multiple directions it’s a little bit of
a lot to look for shore indoors,
and heidi klum runs fast for her age
(her legs are long). write me a song
and i’ll draw you a map, one that
eliminates the possibility of looking
back. then we can stick our tongues
to lamp posts, laugh about a
horrifying lack of a second act, and
ram into plaster walls that are secretly brick
and very thick, but with luck my head will also
prove to be so. if we see out of the corners
of our eyes that the clocks are sliding into
puddles of water, it may seem
we have not accomplished all that much,
except rolled eyes and a craving
for cinnamon rolls. don’t let the claws respond.
i promise it’s not even worth arguing about.
let’s all just go cry to emily deschanel.

la liberté de l’art

under the bridge at mirabeau
the seine is moving with all our love
and remembrance of joy
that flows into the well of pain

the church bells are ringing
and i am still alive

hand in hand, we remain, face to face
while underneath our arms
a cold river is rushing
and eternity flows

and like the water, love goes
it goes as life is slow
and hope is crushing
violent and strong

days pass, weeks go by
but neither lost time
nor lost loves return
but the seine comes around:
water under the bridge, you say...

the church bells are ringing midnight
but look, i survive



{-with apologies to guillaume apollinaire-}

and blue

in the place that will be the home of
your heart, hands and eyes
i see grass, i saw snow (sitting on
a steamer trunk, agent of silent shrouds)
and blood red, blue, and i cried silently for you
because nothing in you
told me that you ever would:

then i was nowhere close
to gone already, and two
halves cut three in three with the demand and
little tri-colored braids come undone as
we run
and the pieces of that heart
you brought west come apart
and if we did not find
so many words soft as “baby, you’re losing it”
to whisper across the dark
we would see simply
“wounded knee”
in black letters, cold crossed but still:

the softly crumbling dreams
on the trail of what
was it, me, everything fell
and the urge to bless
the broken road blossoms—

but you’re beautiful. in your simple
little way—every little piece
that seeped into the ground, the grass, the sky
that terrifies me as much as… i just love you
in visions of three kinds of thread
floating together to stay apart
and not turn light lavender
(as when lilacs last…)

it is this brutal sky blue
which never can stand alone
and never can stand for less than nothing, for
nothing more than a war, it is more
and rivers flood their banks with salvation
for their torn, scarred, beloved nation
and it is only the best we can do
to cry at pieces, smile at a
summer night—
and be stronger than stone, and red, white

ships

your lips sink ships
and the sparkling blue of the ocean
left behind in your eyes
is deathly and permanent

to sleep would be a silly lie, simple proof
of “don’t touch” and colors melting
with my bones

my lucky fingernails flake away, flecks
of mascara dot my footsteps
with wasted eyelash wishes, salt grains, blood
stains, in a rush
to abandon ship

on this conquered cliff, snow
flurries fly suicidally
towards the sea to drown
and i tell the empty air that mongols
must have won this war, a fearsome army
but kubla khan is nowhere near
only the sparkle in your hair

please, where is my ship

life after hector

it was thundering when 

you failed to speak

i spoke of you

beneath the spokes

of his wheel, behind

sun falling, stones falling, that heel

a feel for your face

snowstorms

like greeks

come out of the sea

and do not join but cause the melee

please rise, please bring me rose gold

the reign of the sun

a son

at last bring me astyanax

with words to heal, to beg

this tunnel to end

or else sand blows wide, high, i

am undone

it does not matter what comes

to me now, when soft dusk steals

coins from your eyes

i cannot pay again, i wish 

this time that you had won