there’s no such thing as clouds she said
I asked her to explain
she said
the clouds are just a metaphor
if you touch them
they aren’t there
dissolved by our attention
like particles avoiding a dark plate
suspended in ten thousand tons of water
depending on which technician lifts the lid
huge somethings made of nothing
the weight of mountains
mist fading from your grasp
before you even close your hand
a metaphor, she said
for water’s longing for the sea
(2022)
you
will
never
forget
what
they
have
done
to
you
and
they
are
still
doing
it
(2022)
.
.
.
flawed
bumbling
cracked
leaky
yet
still
vessel
enough
to
water
a
seed
(2022)
lilacs do not last
though they break easily from the branch
the flowers wilt in the glass on your desk
almost before your eyes
and the reward of their fragrance is
not enough to
cover the loss
(2022)
Not enough is said
the long tail curled around your spine
all approaches softened
the surfaces blurring into
inconsequentiality
Commanding silence,
the restless walls slide inward
as you bend gasping
the farcical ceiling tenting overhead
raining your own sweat back upon you
drops wrung from the stone which is yourself
Sickness
even when invisible
is there
is tangible
is a beginning without end
only a Before and After
separating you from those who were not sick
A buzzing fly
pinned between the window pane and screen
smelling petrichor
doubting the rain
(2022)
at the end of the world
when the cities are finished
when the satellites have fallen
and the plastic sand is weighed down
by the bodies of our ships
barnacles erupting from their hulls
no divers to salvage their ambitions
someone is sitting
with the sun on their back
eating an apple
spitting seeds
(2022)
spring waits in the mouth of the year
its words unsaid
its blossoms locked in time
as if in ice
the doorknob chills your hand
and you grumble that this happens every year
the day after you put away your boots
but if you kept them out
and spring didn’t come
could i forgive you?
(2022)
in the time of writing poems
the words said no
they said
you have not earned us
you have not bled us from your fingertips
until your heart is a wrung-out rag
you have not wept
no stone has lodged itself in your intestines
cold lurking with the promise of pain
we owe you nothing
said the words
not knowing how they implicate themselves
liars every one
for here is the poem
that they
refused
to write
(April 2022)
one red leaf floats past
among the green
why did you leave me in autumn?
(2022)
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