Poetry

Yes, there were “close-ups.” In a marriage like theirs,
there were many, and each was easy to find
(her lovely face, her smiles, her pensive stares)

He never even noticed anymore
the “finish” of the wine, the tang of the salt,
the sweetness of the sugared petit four,

It’s a farm town in the August heat
With a couple of bars along Main Street.
A jukebox moans from an open door

The boss would like to see us not in person but would like to see us
do something better the boss would like to see us see ourselves differently

Against black matchsticks,
rotted fangs,
plus and minus, sum lines, mathematics, 

She went to Zurich to rescue a man.
She’d made all the necessary maps. 
Paul Klee would’ve painted this woman

We are high performers not normal not just performers but high ones we 
perform things make papers smell like perfume we don’t order things other 

Ink slurs into byssal threads,
split blue caskets of mussels
scapular in ritual archipelago, butter, cream,

The problem is the voices

I can’t get out of my head. On the bridge, the captain’s playing
“Break On Through”; he’s been

Maybe the letter isn’t from a lover the letter is a layoff letter a lay aside letter
a lay into letter maybe the letter says you are an employee of me and I certainly