In the back of the garden
by the edge of the pond
where the reeds are rustling with a
blanket-shrouded roar like the
sound of the crowd on the
street down below
your balcony

He is lying on his side with his
ear in the dirt not
breathing lest he miss your
footfalls

And you tiptoe and you stomp and you
prowl along the swamp with your
eyes wide open in the
moonlight

And you fear and you seep and you
melt in your sleep and your
viciousness is tangled in the
trees

And the man on the bench sitting
next to me is
shouting in English and he
stinks of sweat and he’s
shaking me up
and straining my grip
on the hand of the man with his
head by the water

Life treads cold like a
melancholic god
Choking us with words and
throttling simplicity
I’d give up my
ability to speak if I could
just work out the
things you need to hear from me


Lips on shoulder
One year older
Shoving through the carnival to
get back to the sun that’s
burning a hole in the
middle of his head with
vanity

And she kept it under wraps and it
ran out of air and she
peeked back under the
lid

A dried-up little bug
A dessicated toad and a
thick grey layer of
disease

It’s lonely out in space and it’s
loud inside your head and it’s
heavy when you wrench it
shut

And the man on the ground lying
next to me is
snoring in French and he
stinks of booze and he’s
freaking me out
and turning my stomach
with the thought that he might be
me

Life slams in to your
window like a brick
thrown by a kid from a
bridge that goes to nowhere
I’d chase him down and
make him give it up if it
wasn’t too late for it to
matter if you care


You only woke up when the spring wound
down


On a plush blue pillow
in the middle of a room
in the middle of a mansion
in the middle of the road where the
traffic is a solid heavy
core woven out of your
memories

She has opened every box, you have
taken every chance, we have
thought of every wrinkle we could
stroke

And you mince and you sweat and you
blush when you forget and you
keep a little catalog of
hurt

It’s a death-defying story of a
cripple on a cross who’s per-
suaded everybody to
freeze

And the woman in my head tells the
woman in my arms that the
woman in my shoes is a
fake pathetic joke that a
man made up
to cover his tracks
when he dumped my body in the
black and angry ocean

Life rolls in like a
conqueror in flames
radiating pride that will
poison every mind
I’d take back every-
thing I never did, if it
might make up a little bit for
being so unkind