Poetry

You think of fin de siècle decadence: perversity, 
death, decline, and decay—the rise of the monstrous

It doesn’t feel that hard but that could be a sign 
That these are so bad; I have no sense. Thinking about keeping these up all summer feels like 
Planning a wedding:

The specific affliction of her curse? Doomed to be cared for 
only by those she holds in complete and utter contempt.

Katie said they were nettles and I guess she was right. I think they’re very pretty—taller than I 
am, thin-throated and headed with a pink bulb made of linear petals. I don’t know what they feel like, though I’ve wanted to touch.

He’s never been on this railway line before.

not a voice—a trajectory 
                                       of wings

Is programming not a kind of poetry?
Ones and zeros of the heart.

Who knows how many of us 
                                                  you’ve killed, dead set 
on what flows beneath, your mouth

At thirty, I am a child again learning
banana, apple, and orange,
clasping words and fumbling my meanings.