beneath my teeth. Like crepes. Like campers
curled in sleeping bags, children getting grass stains
down a hill. Pattern of this cork that has just fallen
from the counter, wobbling, half stained with wine--
Uneven escape.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Saturday, February 7, 2009
the first thing i see when i open my eyes
my plant, undeterred by being dead, is bent and brittle
reaching with its broken guitar string branches
to rest a caring touch on the typewriter,
who suffers from dust and rusted keys, and has
been lately needing frequent reassurance
that everything will be ok.
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