If, in the middle
of the night, words
come; ignore
let the sleeping children
need you
though waves
of light approach
let the man with whom you share
a pillow,
not feel the rise
of ink
the way your breath
has changed
to rough
in darkness, scribble:
now is the time for forgetting
Froth of fabric against
boning, structures
of clasp & waist & layers
of cake, tables set
in silver. Cheekbones.
Chair covers. Hush
of an audience standing
up: fabric, again. Clothed
“His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him.”
—Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol
i.
we are wind, 바람. our number, 38.
we are fire singeing
hanging trees. we peck …
“Lonely as God, and white as a winter moon, Mount Shasta starts up sudden and solitary from the heart of the great black forests of Northern California.”
—Joaquin Miller, from …
The yard has been stripped, the hyacinths
along with the rose bushes, petals heavy of dew,
the basket of a child’s undershirt saddled with toys.
Perhaps for the best—Maa mi …
someone ate a bat, they say—that’s how it happened
photographs of empty rush hours empty vegas empty beaches
fake news of swans and dolphins in venice canals
by Laton Carter Two perfect dandelions hover stemless above the grass. The leopard is in repose, and the squirrel, upright on its haunches, offers to …
I am in a eucalyptus grove next to a playground. I am seven, or eight, my school is Catholic, and recess begins and ends with a bell that stings. You …
If we do something twice, is it a Los Angeles tradition? For the second year in a row, we’ve decided to commission A poem to commemorate and celebrate 12 months …
The scar is a girl and the wheelchair is a woman. The crutch is butch. The drugs are good. The light is dry. The air is paint. The bed isn’t …
