Two poems from last night.

untitled 1——–

 

The fat lands are smooth and leafy.

The houses there are shelled in delicate plasters. 

Stippled pink of granite countertops. Hands flutter

 

like stop-motion animals. 

The night filters outside

from my brow, my bones.

The ache in my jaw

the liposuction of my eyeballs.

The various other tortures I’ve been promised.

 

These are rendered graphically

in the decay of a brick wall,

or the pattern of stains on a quilt. 

 

untitled 2——–

 

The passage of time here

is like the collecting of skeptical fates.

In my face, in your face,

I see a blooming of sleep.

All of us awake, half-awake.

Shivering in February. 

 

Look at the facts        

as they are represented

in crumpled bedsheets

lozenges of dog hair and house dust

systems for storing memories.

Of these things, I stand clear

but perturbed. I graze beside them.

 

A stranger is arranging the clues

to our investigation;

on my tombstone is written: I hope I do. 

 

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