Poetry

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.

Sin, thy name is this
wait—this place—
a long ways from Here
to There, from where

Black mite over the page, furious meander
    of a period untethered.
Black ant over my toes
        lifts by chambers like a lock.

Not plumes. Not plumes

from the teapot’s throat.
    But force, unseen, the space

Blue fluid in my limbs,
momentum buoys me up
at takeoff speed

Half his life he parachuted
from open cockpits in swamp fog,
and the other madly scouted