for a moonlwh
that spins slowly
and echoes our fugitive secrets
My Life as Your Car Keys
You felt in your pocket I wasn’t there You checked your coat I wasn’t there You asked the guy next to you I had been in the corner You asked the girl in the corner I had been in someone else’s hand
yellow moon becomes amber mum becomes question of bridges that go nowhere becomes smell of paper, hot out of the printer becomes something golden that was alive just yesterday but today smells newly, richly dead.
First published in Door is a Jar
a winter state of beinglwh
where all traction is lost but
the wonder is unending
This old man — he played one, he played knick-knack on my thumb.
This old man, my old man, my man, is a long haul trucker. Here last week, gone this week. Back the week after.
Knick-knack, paddy-whack give a dog a bone.
I’m singing to the big old hound lying on the kitchen lino. Useless thing. All saggy skin and knobbly joints anymore. Snufflin’ in his sleep after rabbits he’s never caught. My old man sings that Elvis song to him. Says it’s because Booger is my dog, ain’t no friend of his. Which is why Booger sleeps on his side of the bed when he’s home? I don’t think so. Continue reading