Fishing For


I watched Anne red on the riverside
wet to a poppy she touched wet in a dress
unhooked like windfall on the bank
stark covered in sand I wanted to eat
her body her fishing
big bites and shadows
from low hanging trees grazed
her ankles on slow turn sand
like hands
those sweet little hands




Whole Damned Sky


You were the worst thing about good-bye,
your eyes, a blue cornfield like this, your hand
on my arm, the whole damned sky. I remember
when you were just a boy with hair in your eyes,
school books piled in your arms, a slate asleep.
Now I am left to wonder why the prettiest house
in town is across the street from the cemetery,
or how the grass on the sanded hill still moves
without your body running through it. I have become
your opposite: citrus heart, time, the question.
I scrub the floors until my nails squeak with blood.
The wood will never be clean until I can resist
the memory of your laughter falling from my mouth, 
the only star we were able to see through the storm.


Someone is coughing,
half-blanketed, staring out
at white supper cloud,
down crunchy winter-road
and through the muted valley,
snow. Snow, a captured thing
by naked doorway, frozen
cellulite to fatten the corners,
falling in January like tremendous
flowers. Tremendous thing,
the slow snow-snore
of window light illuminating our
human bodies out in the powder,
2 heads punched by stars
and the memory of brown dust,
saddle poetry. We remember
hooves on grass, shiny long- 
haired tails running with city
far behind, the summer now,
virgin, far behind. This is how
we came to kiss only each other
and long-ago wind.