Deep

Deep, impersonal bridge
no longer used,
isolated, broken in bits,
I salute thee,
half-deadly and boring,
the kids loved to visit you,
to smoke, kill things, cry at clouds
they thought about too long,
have their first kiss,
maybe first something more,
ask who Cindy Sherman is,
first groundhog shot
and furtherama of tears,
self-torture, lotteries
of the souls of other people,
sleeping with them,
owning them, being owned,
abandoning pets
who probably died alone,
and finally,  one of them
left hanging from it,
while the others
weathered on
into age, nostalgia
for being where no one
would ever think to look for you.

Jack

The sense of disclosure
Feels less and less “a thing” to me
Not what the branch means
And not what it writes in the snow
The accident of its life

But that the weird thing reaches

This is so much more elemental
Haunted as the sugars of morning
When dreams trail about them at the window
When all your tragedy has worn off
Tattered as a sleeve

You are hungry again it is laughable

When before all you could eat was cold peas

Leave that poor winter bridge alone

Immigrant Story

You want me to sleep
with you and saints
in a dark cube
where lightning has killed a woman’s body

It came
in an animal form
with thorns in its eyes

It was monstrous as heaven

You say it is nothing
but  a bridge with facts
albeit charred
the windows overlook seas     you point out
See, you said
playing Tarot cards
we can eat our toast in bed
we can waggle our toes towards the bridges
the river in human chains
when the bodies
push news of fires
forward
into the city’s stretched guts
of newspapers
blown

I don’t look forward to walking
in the city’s dry creekbed

I said to a severed head
of lettuce

knife in my hand

(the erosion of everything solidity congealing the dead and green leaves clutter motionless, shrouding, still, hark, the calls of birds bursting, gusting she follows give thanks, paint )

 

And I looked at our child
sitting on the stone floor    he knows

a tiny minotaur
the flies      infiltrating his nose

thinking of our necks as two fat slices of watermelon