. . . . . . . . Nocturne in the gun cabinet . . . . . my mother’s body in wake. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . snow falls around me . . . . . in the hallways of
I forgot when memory became a colander with generous holes…. I forgot not remembering that trembling seacoast city…. I forgot baby priests turning away to cast profiles forsworn to Donatello…. I forgot the…
One scoop
And a world is bornIn this skilled skilletWith gravityAnd a clumpy mixtureThat flattens intoAn almost round…
says the man who doesn’t remind me of you
except that everything reminds me of you, except mausoleums.
In the important world (my imagination), I am watching you, simply, without hope or…
I’d like to order another Novemberinstead of you. There’s some rainin my shoes and it’s flooding thispoem, turning all the gutters intoused-up guts. A fireman with an ancientharpoon wanders the parallelogramsof Virgil’s internet looking to be…