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Month: June 2011

The Sound After Thunder

“So go then,” she said,
referring to the way the river

was drained
of water.

Your front porch was filled

with wind chimes,
filling

the corners of the deck,
filling your house

with hollow sounds.

One day your belongings
began

to disappear.

Windows opened –
latch-less –

let in the low drones
around

an empty fish bowl
of river water.

You disappear,

leaving an empty chair

for the mortician
to prepare,

broken kite strings
on the legs.

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Midnight in Paris

I just might have to go back and see this again and write a review of it. I wanted nothing more than my typewriter and to stay up to write all night after I saw this.

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“Kaleidoscopy”

I remember you –
the way your body

fell

like rain

into the bed.

Sheath after sheath –
the smell of the room,

the shape
of your frame.

You disappeared

inside
the mattress,

the fabric
turned
to water.

Your hair flailed
like a fan,

your fingers were spiders,

the lack of iris
in the blue water,

black pupils placed
on lily pads.

I became the blackened onlooker,

the wavering shadow.

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The Naked, Walking

No one ever asked you
what sin feels like.

It travels to the ends of your hair,
like every other poem

you have written.

[Metafiction.]

You are the character
that walks
in the tide –

the sand
swallowing
your feet,

wishing

for the
strength of the

undercurrent.

You became
my favorite character.

You filled a basement
with cockroaches

and said
the moving floor

was only a figment
of imagination.

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Visiting Rights

1.

You, you remember
those earlier days

when you walked along
a more putrid river

surrounded
by chamomile and violets

where the moon

hung itself

in the trees.

The new moon became
the funeral

you walked into.
You dreamt many times.

2.

You remember how, once,

your legs somersaulted

without you,

as though filled with wind,
as if they
were predetermined
amputees.

You wandered into someone else’s backyard
without them,

as if it would help stop the bleeding,
as if it would somehow tell you

you have somewhere else to be.

And when you awoke,

you walked into a woman’s yard,
hanging laundry.

Admired
the childlike size of the clothes,

the smell after washing
still suggesting illness.

3.

The rain had pelted through
the scarecrow’s body,

limp on his pole.

She placed his clothes on the line,
she said, to keep them from molding –

(while the scarecrow lay limp
on the desert rock,

he with a torn mouth,
his body –

the tan-to-brown S shape
that then suggested

poisonous snakes.)

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