Saving For Sleep
Night’s pitch-rolled on a deck of blight,
and hands, they call, all hands aboard.
Here’s the rigging of a dream—
Poems
Cooking Frutti Di Mare On This Early Evening Before the Night Falls On Kentucky Hillsides
Today, as the locals love to say,
is so cold the wolves ate the sheep for the wool.
I open the bag.
How to Make Amends
He was hungry, so he ate the couch, the one with the pull-out bed. Of course, when the wife came home, she was disgusted.
Villanelle over Spilled Milk
every evening the milk spills at dinner.
my puny hand grabs the plastic chalice, fails.
dad swings his fist down like a hammer.
We Don’t Call It a Riot
That summer was an oven on self-clean—
beyond hot. The cops raided clubs for weeks.
Huddled, frightened men and men and women
and women and human and human held
at the end of a nightstick in contempt,
being held in the arms of a lover
The Afterlife: In the Summer House
A scrap of canvas tacked to the kitchen wall
reads, in Russian and English:
AT THE DARK TIME
PULL OUT THE CORD.