Love Death Unfurl

“And so, every building we have walked through begins to walk through other buildings.”
—Colum McCann, from his essay “An Imagined Elsewhere: The City of Cities” accompanying Matteo Pericoli’s World Unfurled

As far as she knows, he is the first
to go. Others may have
exited too—she can’t monitor
all egresses, all trap doors

lovers walk on, all the hot air
balloons that crash
into lagoons and straits.
Better to travel on foot

with skyway vision in January,
bridge perspective come spring.
That he has missed two seasons
already, will never feel the first

blast of warm euphoria
in Minnesota again—this is not
a spinster’s regret.

Sea Salt and Almonds

“She knew the grammar of least motion.”
—Theodore Roethke, from “The Dream”

These curling waters won’t freeze
even when a spillway channel
halts in its purpose. It’s a long way
to the bayou
from here. Dark chocolate
could almost fuel us
on this journey
to a mouth with many tongues—a roof
all but blown away.

Dead Relative Society Minutes

This Wuthering Heights morning
will give way to nothing

more than a Kentucky afternoon
into a Mississippi River night. Ice

dams and avalanches
and floods—let them be.
What will be will be
on moor, in prohibition speak

easy cave, under Prairie
School eave overnight.

Recount

Four children four
seasons—does it begin
with spring or winter?
It all depends—

whether we are dormant
before we live, whether
we can begin again, whether
autumn counts at all.

Living Outside the Notes (Day 2,963)

Ink smears over knuckles,
a left-hander drags
her thoughts through the past.
No moment
is left clean.

Coda to Kent Stage

To be lost inside the eye
of a virus, to shiver
from the sensation
that this condition is

permanent, to forget
what was so crucial
to say to you last night
is to be a human dropping

to her knees
to cushion the crash.

When I Come To

after the drug
of eating dirt has splayed me
unconscious, I will resume
my search to unearth
my own history. And rub
stiffness from my hands—
the grip’s the worst. The alcoholic
tradition is not the only one
to be found. Will dig more.

Left

Not everything that doesn’t get built
dies, not everything built lives.

Better with a wrench
than a hammer, she

would rather loosen
those four legs to collapse

old surfaces than tighten a grip
into an ache. This overreach

for words pounds down.

To Widow a Name

is no accident, is my passive
aggressive mapping of my own
heart. I know

it is not what you are
called (or those few choice
words we exchanged)

that made me sick. I know
my body’s internal mechanisms
are of no concern to you. Still,

I can swallow this dream—panacea
that floats to the top. To say it
aloud is too much.

Issue

All exits are emergency
escapes from moments
that have died.
Write tiny epitaphs

for each and be accused
of living in the past. Without
them there would be
no future. The time has come

to forgive
our younger selves.