Poetry

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

All contrary noises in the world,
the bang of unlatched things, 
the scratching in the wall,

[…]

All the beautiful young men,
Muscles etched with birds and names
That would be long-forgotten 

I’m telling you, was always like this: her fingers
around a cold glass, asking me if I really thought her lovely.
In a musky corner booth, thinking only of ourselves. We let one another be 

Nor its manifold mirages, billows and mountains
And mislaid islands shifting by the minute, which nonetheless

Do exist—as image, not as body

I intend to converse with many. None in the same room.
I have a daughter to search for, an acre of farmland to sell.
I must confirm that flour is falling and copper is rising;

We are not allowed to take photographs.
Not allowed to tell you certain things
Or which things those are. The screens

Two men walk on a path. 
One has a blade in his pocket.
We do not know if the edge

First, decide where water stops
And ice begins. Then, where ice