

Castaway Sings Love SongThere comes a time cast in Septembers sea Desirous and near drowning in the wind By chance just strong enough to carry me Across the muddled mornings that begin With pigtail braids and lipstick smeared and soft That tracks our histories in skins slight hollows For love, like stars, we hoist the sails aloft And every trail the dead men spin, we follow But never in mornings have I thought Of golds and purples strung around the neck The devil grown within me, I have caught And trapped within the boughs of this ships wreck But I have kept some mutterinCastaway Sings Love Song


Haikufrosted october keeps rivers stalled at the sea were landlocked like this.Haiku


AutobiologyYou shoot me in the head when I oversleep, move the cradle of the gun from your fingers to mine and spend two hours mimicking the exact dip and curl of my handwriting.Autobiology
And you flee the scene and light your evening by coiling gas lines and cursing the fact that I kept a garden until the day I died.
inside me when the reactions stop I find that there are still scorch marks on my skin and the man at the
gate of heaven thinks Ill burn whatever lives.
so the angels chain me to a swingset where I can on


The Anti-DedicationYou're sixty-four years old and living in pixel-perfect technicolor in a universe you created where there's some kind ofThe Anti-Dedication
conspiracy about the rainforest or what's left of it anyway-- who'll own it, Macintosh or Microsoft. They ask you to take a quick look-see and judge for yourself.
So it's a long trek through the forest, greeting the bulldozer men on their coffee break, moving with the calculated deliberation of the sloth several thousand feet above you. It's a stroll at first, soon a light
jog, but it doesn't take long to become a &n


ThreeIn the dusk-yellow sunshine of the desert, the morning wind is crackling like static over the sand. It breathes salt, breathes sore throats and raw skin against the red mountains. The crows are croaking again, low and harsh and rattling like the final breaths of a half-dead man. This man is alive. He crawls spidery and long-limbed against the dirt-rimed cliffs, lost now in a patch of purple shadow. Now here he is in the sunlight, new and watery, and his skin is red and peeling, and the snatches that have fallen off flutter to the dunes below like snow. This man is alive (alive for now) alive for the hot cruel scratch scratchThree


DoorwaysShe writes the note to your parents with the same hand she held the ruler with. She is left-handed and assures them it is a miracle she detected it so soon. You get glasses instead. Every year a little bit thicker, but you wear them well and when you take them off, the world is much smoother. Vaseline edges and shadowy glows. When your last prescription runs out, well go to the house at the bay and throw glass bottles at the sun.Doorways
But dragonfly bites only graze my arms
in the afternoon. Youre searching for silhouettes in the hallway while I have old friends for tea


HalinkaThere are mini-vans for two blocksHalinka
on either side of your porch. Macaroni in the oven and champagne flutes already broken. Your new brothers are filling the kiddie pool with Corona and someone just tried to feed the dog potpourri.
But at least the kids are safe.
The basements got carpet and cable. You throw soda and hot dogs down every few hours and lock the door.
Laura.
Jooooooooy!
I luff you!
Boo on me not getting the first comment!
Liz
My, you're old.
--
Rory
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