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Displaying 1 of 1 review
December 30, 2025
“Unnamed objects. The fear
dispersed like the sound
of angry peacocks.
The white ones. So still
in the aviary.
We opened the rock. This
time I saw the god
offer with out-stretched hand
the heart to be devoured. The
lakes flowed into my hands.
Dante would say the lake
of the heart.
Two men sit in a tree
and wink and spit
Now this is the tree
where Amor sits.
He gave them each
a trinket of flesh.
The rules he sighed,
are in the wrinkled grass
when the find goes by
seeking itself or jealousy.
One imagined two small windows
cut in his skin. His breasts
look out upon the tree.
The other thought the shape
of his tongue was poetry.
The word, he said,
drawn like an arrow,
so fits
into the body of the bird it hits.”
—
“The shadow of the fish lies
among the rocks. The
shadow of the sage brush
turns the hill blue. The
shadow of the mountain includes all strangers.
(The strangulation will appear
in the brush fire.)
The coyotes, burned out of their lairs,
follow the railroad. Shapes
of poems
fly out of the dark.
The tree spoke: Love is not love.
Imagine your first stupor. The
effort to untie the strings
of the loins. The lips endure
the semen of strangers.
It is spring
when the shadow of willows is gone.”
—
“The intensities
of these branches
of willow
open.
What is it
broke the skin?
How lovely
that jewel
of under the skin.
Neither dark nor light
is my true love.
The blood whose beauty crosses
the hand like money
will fight for that true love.”
—
“Two men sit in a tree.
How ugly they are
in the bright eye
of this pageantry.
In service to love
is dignity, one cried,
1, 2, 3, the other replied,
you’re out
when the dew falls from imagination’s dark.
Amor turned geometer,
briefly, of course,
and cut their bodies into triangular parts.
When reassembled
they hung in that tree,
their genitals placed
where their heads should be.”
—
“This year the herds move
far out into the sagebrush
toward the foothills.
Suddenly, the aspens,
like herds themselves,
fill the gullies. This
is the darker blue
you see from the highway.
The dew fell from imagination’s dark
on to our hands where it stuck like bark.
The wheels of your heart, Amor cried,
roll around the edge of the fire.
You might imagine, in service to love,
your hands dip out the water
the shell or sperm, dropped there in passing
by some ashen likeness.”
—
“Amor entered disguised as grass. You both
hoped your seed would fall among the roots
of this tree and there grow up a second tree
and guardian.
WHAT IS THAT WRINKLES UNDER THE ROOT?
SKIN, SEMEN, AN ARM AND A FOOT.”
—
“The breath stutters
in limbs where Amor swings.
The realism he’s after cheats and sings.
He drops the steel scales of his body down
where one eye out, the lover turns
round and round.”
dispersed like the sound
of angry peacocks.
The white ones. So still
in the aviary.
We opened the rock. This
time I saw the god
offer with out-stretched hand
the heart to be devoured. The
lakes flowed into my hands.
Dante would say the lake
of the heart.
Two men sit in a tree
and wink and spit
Now this is the tree
where Amor sits.
He gave them each
a trinket of flesh.
The rules he sighed,
are in the wrinkled grass
when the find goes by
seeking itself or jealousy.
One imagined two small windows
cut in his skin. His breasts
look out upon the tree.
The other thought the shape
of his tongue was poetry.
The word, he said,
drawn like an arrow,
so fits
into the body of the bird it hits.”
—
“The shadow of the fish lies
among the rocks. The
shadow of the sage brush
turns the hill blue. The
shadow of the mountain includes all strangers.
(The strangulation will appear
in the brush fire.)
The coyotes, burned out of their lairs,
follow the railroad. Shapes
of poems
fly out of the dark.
The tree spoke: Love is not love.
Imagine your first stupor. The
effort to untie the strings
of the loins. The lips endure
the semen of strangers.
It is spring
when the shadow of willows is gone.”
—
“The intensities
of these branches
of willow
open.
What is it
broke the skin?
How lovely
that jewel
of under the skin.
Neither dark nor light
is my true love.
The blood whose beauty crosses
the hand like money
will fight for that true love.”
—
“Two men sit in a tree.
How ugly they are
in the bright eye
of this pageantry.
In service to love
is dignity, one cried,
1, 2, 3, the other replied,
you’re out
when the dew falls from imagination’s dark.
Amor turned geometer,
briefly, of course,
and cut their bodies into triangular parts.
When reassembled
they hung in that tree,
their genitals placed
where their heads should be.”
—
“This year the herds move
far out into the sagebrush
toward the foothills.
Suddenly, the aspens,
like herds themselves,
fill the gullies. This
is the darker blue
you see from the highway.
The dew fell from imagination’s dark
on to our hands where it stuck like bark.
The wheels of your heart, Amor cried,
roll around the edge of the fire.
You might imagine, in service to love,
your hands dip out the water
the shell or sperm, dropped there in passing
by some ashen likeness.”
—
“Amor entered disguised as grass. You both
hoped your seed would fall among the roots
of this tree and there grow up a second tree
and guardian.
WHAT IS THAT WRINKLES UNDER THE ROOT?
SKIN, SEMEN, AN ARM AND A FOOT.”
—
“The breath stutters
in limbs where Amor swings.
The realism he’s after cheats and sings.
He drops the steel scales of his body down
where one eye out, the lover turns
round and round.”
Displaying 1 of 1 review