selected past writing at 42opus
Their legs are trees. He jaguars into the room. He stalks in pajamouflage. A tree root guts him with an upkick, flips him, stunned. He looks up like he's down in the lesson tub looking up at Father. A man's smile wavers in a whiskey glass.
Twenty minutes until my brother's wedding and I'm drunk and my mouth is hot and thick with vomit.
She can only imagine cars
on the highway. Thinks they must glint like boats
on a blue harbor. She can only imagine boats
on a blue harbor.
27 May 2006 | poetry