The Girl, the Wolf, the Crone
More than once there was a soon-to-be-old woman who had a loaf of bread, held it in her hands she did, and it was inconvenient to have a loaf of bread always sitting in her hands as she tried to sweep or sew or sneeze…
Now I think of what I’d die to forget. Now I forget.
Where did I grow up, get out—was I as rich as a golden
yolk waiting to crack in the hay?
People love my city for its brasseries like hothouses, ardent and perverse, its breezes that smell of coffee and of the sea.
Of this world we know very little.
In my little house I know green
stags leap over me when I sleep.
I sometimes feel like I have to pull from different parts of myself when I write an essay or a poem.
The daughters wake for the first time on his front porch and he will never know where they come from.
I feel that he enjoys being a bystander while he is struggling. That suggests how I can live in this monstrous world playfully.
What can the unfortunate insect do
if it is found wanting in weight?
A pill-bug rolls into a bead of silent news.