Street At Night

a glove

wet baseball cap

shards of glass

Glove, does the hand miss you?

the bike wheel squeals

at the dirty fur and a broken tail

a piece of truth


a voice peeled off the humid air

leaving it crisp

poor Birds, it says,

they always think it’s the morning


The cement pavement

a desert with stale sand

holds the heaviness of a thousand globes

filled with the grainy flesh of August

and dull echoes of sweetness

She cuts one open

splashes of dry sugar

the same sound when the earth splits

Waiting Room

The air was withering as it passed through the dusty window pane.

Nothing answered the monotune of the rolling suitcase.

A pair of black high heels tapped impatiently until a gaze ridiculed them.

Two hands spread the newspaper: small headline fonts.

All that was happening in the world shrank next to the thin yellow sign:


The Gown

I look out of the window: slate roofs, snow

Patches of pale green and paler pink

Pigments the old man once chose

to paint the lotus flowers

on white silk

When the paint dried

he raised the scissors and followed

the imagined contour of a body

He was tailoring a gown

that now sits in my suitcase

two thousand miles above the ground

Are you getting married?

He asked with a tape measure around my waist

No, I am just going away.

Let Me Tell You A Story

I lived with a lizard named Hank — a Geico, I mean, sorry, a gecco. Once someone misnamed Hank, Gary. One day, as he tanned under the heat lamp, I looked through his skull. Translucent, brainless, airy. He was trampling on his plant. It was a nice plant. He was killing his nice plant, not knowing that he was killing his nice plant. That’s what I wanted to tell you. Look, my jellyfish just died. My jellyfish had no brain, either. I don’t know why I tell you this. Out of the stubbornness of hands. Out of the absence of mind. Out of a question, maybe.