Poetry

When his beloved Sophie died, Novalis 
Lay by her grave and wept himself to sleep.
On the third night she met him in a dream.
He woke transformed, longing for the last trance,
“When sleep shall be without waking.” 

Goddess, I have watched your motions gratify the world.
Votaries of all casts and ages, genders, voices
bow to you as they must, for nothing follows without you.

This morning your mouth
Was all I could think about

The martyr is borne
through town on the backs

of believers.
Such a ghost ship!

Storm me.
Send 

me down into the dirt
& dark, raise 

me like thunder up.

My room’s the shape of a cage
The sun crooks his arm through the bars

My enemies used to annoy the hell out of me with their fake cheerfulness, their pathetic need to be liked, or their drive to dominate every conversation. 

Do you know the poems of Max Jacob?
Do you know Talese, Gay? Swenson, May? 
Do you know Goldfinger, alias Gert Fröbe?
Do you know Robinson, Sugar Ray?

When you parted the muslin curtains, the white branches of winter trees became the arms of girls in their spring frocks in April and May.

I teach them to behave just like the rest.
They’re marked as absences, take up no room.
They only raise their hands when others do.
They never speak, even when spoken to.