Poetry

My wife raises children in a house Full of knives and fire. Electricity slithers through the walls. Outside, stars fall like trees. I warn her about this, But she does not hear me.

Give me the lowest place: not that I dare Ask for that lowest place, but Thou hast died That I might live and share Thy glory by Thy side. Give me the lowest

The curve she didn’t curve around straightens her life into rows of cornfields she’ll zoom through in dreams that turn into months of coma, into a cracked skull and lacerated eye

Waves awaken me to the sight of pink, gray and white shells that line the mantle, their jaws agape in yawns to match my own. A window-slapping palm tree frond, the sun in

Hear it, through the walls how it crinkles like overworked skin. Unused to movement its limbs grind bone to socket. It learns soon enough how it is excused from laws of earthly motion.