In the hospital bed

We thought we loved each other

Thought and felt and knew-

And as our bodies touched we thought

The closeness only grew-

Each brush of skin and fragile

graft a flush of breath two lips which

crash and each exchange would cinch

the last ’til our bodies spliced together.


We hoped we healed each other

Hoped and tried and failed-

Each kiss we gave we tried to stop

Our faces growing pale-

One bite to make a rosy

patch one scratch to change the skin from

black a desperate thrust which served to

mask our pieces dying, losing purchase.


So we poisoned each other

Killed and maimed and bruised-

And for a while believed that all

Our ailments could be soothed-

Injected pain and sadness

passed through open sores a growing

mass of disillusioned joy; at

last we identified our contagion.



Not that I can remember that clearly,

as if it were important to me,

but I think that’s how I felt when we were grinding-

and him, almost-kissing-me.

I felt that spark in my gut of winning

more than my fair share-

of breaking some rule somebody had set out for me.

It was some sort of window to the Europe

I’d been promised-


by housewives who’ve been pining for it since.

I never took myself for a housewife.

I never signed their contracts, willingly

I thought as it was happening that I knew the best way

to always keep myself free.

I didn’t, it turns out, and neither did he.

Does that make him a sucker?


Some days I want to be a sucker too.

And some days I think I’m better.

That’s the danger-

while you’re getting away with something

you never know who might be busy

getting away from you.

The sky just like all of us

There is magic, a current, a tree

I know it

Which people other than ourselves could feel

It pools here, gathers, fattened droplets

which they vainly tried to shape and steer.

But perhaps back then, the Sky allowed it

Took pity, or sensed kindred blood

Dripped moonlight on their dancing shoulders

wanted, simply, to be seen and loved.

Callanish Three

At the top of this stone is the sun

, the moon

, the sun

are in each other at the top,

and the sky

is black lichen clouds or

is that the hills of the moor?

They trickle down a slope in the stone,

and fall

like a waterfall, a river

or a lightning strike

which forks,

like every future does.

And in the near-middle of the river

is a canyon’s cleft, which opens

A mouth

A vagina

and now that I study it

everything seems

to be flowing from there.

Now boarding

I felt like such an adult as I

carefully removed two slices of bread,

two slices of cheese, two slices of ham,

from their respective Ikea ziplock baggies.

The honey-mustard made it, in a little deli packet,

but it was sustenance,

and I had made it,

and I had planned ahead.

Perhaps this was adulthood, I reasoned,

although no one has come up with a definition yet:

getting on trains

watching the countryside

eating your own sandwich

purchasing ziplock bags.

The 18:15 to Valencia Nord

In Valencia I witnessed:

A marathon

Human towers

A formation of dancing girls in the park.

Sword fighting enthusiasts with axes and scythes

A gathering of restauranteurs dressed like priests.

A caravan filming a car commercial

A Valencian beauty queen in traditional garb.

A man on the train with a pink mustache, and a weird smile.

A cat stuck in a window box trying to get out.

Spanish flags

Two gargoyles

A paella the size of a tire

Many fountains,

a Chinese New Year,

and James Cameron’s top grossing film,


Don’t go where I can’t follow

I wanna go where you can’t follow

I want to exist in a vacuum of you

A crying, spinning, heartbreak vacuum-

but still- without you- still-

with me. I barely know who I am by myself anymore

Or who I was before. If I was anyone before,

but maybe that’s the problem.

I can’t wait to be free of you, while I’m missing you,

pining after you and becoming myself.

It’s not your fault, of course,

you couldn’t make me know myself

or not-make-me

You couldn’t stunt or confuse me, you couldn’t

enlighten or save me, you are just you;

who- I love with my whole life. You are

what I wanted when I thought I wanted

a soulmate. And I will miss you. I

just hope that while you’re gone

Something in me might change.

Boylston Place

I’m sitting in an elevated lecture hall,

built on brick city cinderblock high-rise.

I look to my right, through

Two layers of windows

Rising brick upper apartment building

There’s a studio room, with folding black chairs

A sparse room with photos on clothespins

There’s a family there, framed

by the window

A father, a mother, a boy.

The boy is a ghostly (shining) flicker

Who moves like a flash in the corner of my eye

Blue shirt, round face, strong short legs

He is running and jumping,

his father is sitting,

they move in an unchoreographed way.

I wonder if they see me seeing,

or if they notice the staring students I’m with.

They are still young, still handsome

The mother with sleek asian features, pearl earrings

Perfect black turtleneck, white smile.

I wonder if this is their home.

Next door (the same room?) is an office.

They disappear, is this where they go?

Young boy, crawling on desk-chair.

Ruffling papers,

I think there’s a wall between them.

The group gets up,

On their Monday morning

The boy runs the length of the room.

They are peaceful and interesting and after they’ve gone

I miss them,

(Wait for them to come back)

want them to return.