Poetry

I wonder what Spanish poets would say about this,
Bloodless, mid-August meridian,
Afternoon like a sucked-out, transparent insect shell,
Diffused, and tough to the touch.
Something about a labial, probably,
        something about the blue.

I showed up for jury duty—
turns out the one on trial was me.

Ah, these nights of January
when I sit recreating our moments
in my mind and I meet you

Land snails the size of hockey pucks
slime a shimmer along craggy roots. A mantis
wipes its eyes with her forelegs like she’s taking

Dangling his legs outside the plane in wind
that seems about to whip him in half at the hips,
but won’t, having split

Me & the Devil are rivals
for God’s affection.

 A short ride in the van, then the eight of us 
   there in the heat—white shirtsleeves sticking,
the women’s gloves off—fanning our faces.