Poetry

Almost always, it’s just getting dark
when you come back, when you arrive
on this street;
dark
and perhaps just beginning to rain,

I want to give you
more than these words
finite as husks
or a string of barbed wire.

An afterthought? When all but one
of the glovers or joiners who signified

Red Sea had been sewn
fine caps for ready

We have eyes like Choctaw bonepickers:
Catch extra letters, all caps, no caps,
Wrong caps, censorious fingers

[…]

Typing paper and white-out bought, sacked,
and clutched to my breast as if with purpose,
I find myself still shopping: is it the wish to be,
or the feeling of being already no one at all
that lures me through the aisles and aisles of racks
of...

This silver light could dissolve everything
into one substance. Already the borders
of sand and ocean and air are unclear,