Poetry

If there are churches
This is where a church might be,
A theatre if there are theatres, or
A store.

The corridor, a New Jersey of the West, its stucco newness.
What king was it that built this highway?

I watch the point of the twirling stick
Where you are sleeping, where you will come again.

It’s a routine we’ve worked out
to pass the winter.
I saw myself in two, in three,
into a puzzle,

How I hate you tonight!
I tick off
the bumps on your back,
your hangnails, the acid

The water level
comes up when
you throw in
stones, bricks…

Is it rude to tell men you don’t
            love them just the idea of them

The mind 
likes the squeeze 
of chutes and channels.

Things of my world, thwart, solid, chockablock,
That I was wont lightly to wield and dandle,
Now, button-bungler, fool of lid, latch, lock,