For Night Travelers

words like beginning and ending are not helpful
the way algae      waves its arms underwater
the taxi        you’re not sure is dreaming
in the steam        of the city night

could be here for you       could be
here for no one        an airport
nothing but another
of night’s paperweights

people coming in and out
of dark strips
all night long


 buttering up the stars


At Night, The Eggplant

I don’t ask for the night’s permission
to speak to it.
But I do feel like a book spine that has broken off,
as I sit in this plastic eggplant chair
in an airport that is trying to support me
like an uncomfortable afterlife.

Choosing a Mate

A crow hunts a wife.
He looks in at the old cemetery.
Some girl crows are laughing,
perched on the tombstones there.
He looks at the garbage dump.
Some girl crows are eating there,
using their seductive beaks
to separate rotten meat from blonde doll hair.
He surveys a fast food dumpster from the air.
Some girl crows are shopping and croaking there,
keeping each other girl company just fine.
The crow flies away eating air.
Hard into nothingness of sky.
The world is so deep in loveliness
it is just impossible.