She’s a city-dwelling, sagely beardedmountain man,a libidinous old dame dressed in evening wear. Her eyes are hooded,her bald head so imposing it brings to mind not one but all three domes of the Sacré-Coeur.Into this zone of mirth Our mistress of endings sends the world spinning out of orbit.
Clocking in
When bones awakewith the lightnessof settled dust —innumerateand wordlessand in a rush –the irrevocable hourfateful and augustleaps behind us.Our mumbling voicesharshest in morningdarkest before risingbegin to animatethe ticking clock.
Six for Jay. Deformed Sonnets
Some do not Sobered bythe unavoidable,unlike old menwho decoratetheir memories,some do notredress the pastor change their tearsto pearls —or foil the living truthas though a beautybrushing byhas blinded themwith scorn. Nothing wasted Kneadedfrom the stuffwe call our brains,a fabricof wrong things,a smugnessof highest thoughtsand lowest stains,incongruitiesare the natureof the beastwe are pleasedto sufferand call the
