She says she thought about me this AM.

That would have been right when I was thinking

about how sick I am of this project.

How maybe all I need is a helper

to light it on fire, "the perfect plan."

Every computer, every location,

every page, every last person;

every article and accoutrement

of history, character, or attire: 

burn it all. Every single thing gets wicked.

Each one of these thousand sources. Spare nix.

And burn the witnesses, and the witnesses

to the witnesses, greasy as lambs—

so the fire spits and zings in innocence.

88 (Mi Mea)

I kept a lock of her hair, which I used

to stuff the head of a doll I repaired,

which is here on my desk to pierce with pins

because aren’t we friends? We’ll always be

friends, friends to the end, hidey hidey ho,

my friend, sweet friend, who has no darts for me,

my friend, sweet friend, who won’t hold up the phone,

so I can hear her breathe, mentiroso,

and exist in her follicles and spit,

and be there just ahead in her next chair,

in a waiting thought, ripened by a bruise.

Por favor, un momento con mi amor, 

si, mi amor, mea memento mori.


When she was a girl, and I was a boy,

the trees had no kind, the doors had no #s,

and the wind did not carry the clatter

of bones, weathered and hollow, and once words.

Animals had our eyes, our short-life eyes,

and we knew the way to go in the sand—

and daylight was squeezed from lemons & limes—

and little lies were prey to little birds.

I lived within a prayer, when I was with her.

And now we have North, she and I have North,

and to mourn, a week with the linden trees.

And whenever she & I are children,

we're children without tongues, and without hands.


I was just minding my own business,

just sitting around, all by myself,

waiting for something shitty to happen,

when you showed up again, waving, waving 

your long arm and buttered toast fingertips,

and asking if I miss you, which I do,

which I do, which I do, which I do,

and then you left, again, teeth without lips.

Come over here, my doe-eyed once darling,

and kiss me when you do that.  Kiss me when

you kick the bread crumbs and the pigeons laugh,

when you toss out your hands and make the sun.

You, I do.  Under your sky, I do.

85 (Spell)

If sorrow had no lover, the petals 

of roses woud sing, and night would not heal

the wound, and we would not blink our eyes, still,

still, and breathe these ashes, these ashes, through

our teeth.  We would not melt the snow with our 

dreams, and water would not be wine with no

color and no flavor, and the laughter of children,

the other children, would not pierce the window,

would not draw us so near the horizon.

If sorrow has no lover, who will pour,

and who will light the cigarette?  And will

there be no ivory blade to cut the seal?

To read aloud the jinx?  "I cast the spell."  

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