Poetry

we move all the time we radiate in cardboard we radiate in history we radiate in paint we radiate phantoms we radiate indifference, in turn, saw the body as a boat housing the

If I could stop and give what you wanted to see, still the axis by the flick of my fingers and pause this perpetual motioning, I would. And things would tilt and change

September shoulders in       bringing with him cloud-shine, shiver; the last waves of summer       raise their humming weight against the dark. Autumn is an infant: make new room, it says, for me in your

lugged, tugged, hauled, wheeled out of the office of Psychiatrist So-and-So and onto conveyor belts attached by air to flight, time, destination always arrives later than usual in the decade and doesn’t

A wave’s white flag unfurls against the headland. We’re pleased with summer’s long foreseen surrender: hot noons betrayed by maples fringing umber, horny insects dying in the wetlands. You said