Poetry

At night in the field, I felt the curvature of a palpable
time around me, felt the dark
foam of the waveform rise and collapse

It is easier for people to think I wanted
a dick swinging between my legs.

It makes more sense that way instead of the
facial hair that came at the same time

Hmong people say one’s spirit can run off,
Go into hiding underground.

Only the physical stays behind.

Dear friend, dear fearless        reader, dear soft spot, dear        drummer’s
Backstage sweat-soaked T-shirt        kiss, dear one                  sweet     world-without

-End, dear if you             find this, dear feckless, damned...

your name for purposes of identification

how can I when it’s failed

better a border made of water

harder to cross

each seed is different

like each tongue

how many heads

was the right question to ask

In the penumbra of an oak under sculpted
Moonlight, we pile the last waking hours

On our faces, breathe the wilderness of dry
Heat waiting for fall ventilations. It feels

I press my hand to your sleep.

Then I find your spent head under small
whirling tresses

having digested the clatter
of car horns, children

bustling into sweet shops.

the back of my hand and this neighborhood,
which is devolving even now into
a semblance of Detroit. I know not
to lead a horse to water because
that won’t end well. I know my name
and to the mirror’s mute face

Chambers fall to splinter gravel.
Leaf grows from my throat. 

Walls forsake the crumpled ground
It is meant to hold up.

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In the end, everything turns out
right, like the last ten verses
of Job, where rings are given
in supplication and apology. Where sheep