the house settles around
the crook carved
into the body of the bed
late night story
book is red
Three policemen climb over a fence. I am dead. I am on the ground. I am pretty in a white dress. We live between getting up when someone is at the door, and not getting up when someone is at the door. A bed of sleepy women move like cats. On the other side of the fog, you are naked in a vat. You are a memory of mine being erased. So this is my death, not yours. Someone is at the door.
a d o
l o r e
enter as you leave
after and before
David, I think I love you, and your wife is cool.
I watched your wife on that tv show, and
she wasn’t terrible and that was okay.
David, I wonder if you would love me too?
I know you love your wife, but everyone
says I’m witty and sardonic and a bit “old school”
just like you. I heard you on the radio,
and you said something about oranges,
and I laughed because it was funny, and
my last name is “Orange” and we obviously
have a connection. Call me if you’re ever in The States.
i n t
T R I
what is this emptiness inside?
the national debt?
festival atmosphere drawn through cigarette
disappears into opposite of yet
return a god
bless you or render
joy strike deep
share the occurrence of you
too fragile to hear echo of ideal
against tense glacier
spring flood out stature
comfortable, and warm