Poetry

On the table, the man cleans a gun. A boy aside—pajamas and a ragged rabbit, stuffed and sewn button eyes. The boy begins to cry, though he can’t name a reason

We never knew love lives or monkey shines. We never got around to hammering out the details. We were told to watch our mouths, unless our mouths were somehow televised. There were better

Driving this way doesn’t bring up any nostalgic feelings, doesn’t take me back to a room I’d like to be in, it doesn’t give me something new to obsess

(Laryx lyallis) A few weeks after my mother died, I dreamed that she was waiting for me in a ravine of spring-green larches. There was no worry in her eyes, and she sat

I start on the coffee table with a sledge hammer Turning it to splinters big as porcupine quills. I dismantle all the blankets thread by thread, Unravelling back and forth like a dog