Ah, these nights of January when I sit recreating our moments in my mind and I meet you
Land snails the size of hockey pucks slime a shimmer along craggy roots. A mantis wipes its eyes with her forelegs like she’s taking
Dangling his legs outside the plane in wind that seems about to whip him in half at the hips, but won’t, having split
Me & the Devil are rivals for God’s affection.
A short ride in the van, then the eight of us there in the heat—white shirtsleeves sticking,the women’s gloves off—fanning our faces.
Sin, thy name is this wait—this place— a long ways from Here to There, from where
Black mite over the page, furious meander of a period untethered. Black ant over my toes lifts by chambers like a lock.
Not plumes. Not plumes from the teapot’s throat. But force, unseen, the space
So what if he was old enough to slough her off? The night of her news he made an exception—
