poems

• Social Medea

  I use it as a bookmark,

  the stub from “Children of Men,”

  that meh movie we saw at

  the Angelika.

• One and Sundry

  
  There was a hot spring

  in the new development

  off Cherry,

  
  and we swam in it,

  like intruders of the well-

  curated night of quiet abandon.

• Psychologically

  Psychologically

  there

  wasn’t

  a bough

  to his branches,

  and his roots

  all

  rose

  to the sun.

  In the middle of the

  night a paw

  print

  appeared

  in the basement,

  as the invisible

  creature of

  his

  mind

  manifested

  under the house.

  In the morning the real

  dogs

  wondered at

  the

  ruse,

  smelling its

  dust

  for clues.

• Seagulls Don’t Have to Quarrel

  All the haircuts

  tectonically

  rubbing my eyes:

  ironic, twee,

  trawling carefree.

• Preview

  Tribalism,

  the video

  game version, is

  super ago

  and ultra um.

• A Living Icon Pitching to a Grown Troglodyte

  Mal-twitterversed

  of scrawling pose,

  hold my last hand,

  enthrallingly

  a little wet.

• Over the Festoon

  I’m learning walls

  are made of sleep,

  and I can dream

  in jade or pink

  diurnally.

• Coup de Gris

  The green wooden house on 12th

  between gray and grey buildings

  is the livid top of moss

  bulging after rain.

• Letaphor

  
  Monday of repair

  after another run-in

  with a bear

  
  over the weekend.

  I appled into its lair

  to be warm and quiet and empty.

• I’ll Meet You

  I’ll meet you

  on the platform

  where the trains

  never

  come,

  and we’ll wait

  for nothing and no

  one

  in

  the rain

  or the sun,

  studying the cracks

  in things and the moss

  that heals

  them

  back

  to able.

  The politics of clouds

  are at an all-time

  rough,

  which

  means no

  collaborative

  norms

  for

  awhile.