Overnight Poems

Interpupillary Distance

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A pair of roof prism
binoculars to spy on
the ivy-covered brick
across the alley, a scoop 

back black 

dress she might buy for one
night of swooning
over the Pacific, she’s not looking
to rekindle 

any illusions 

that sparks did fly
high above the liars pit,
not mailing that letter
with too many 

stamps to start a bonfire 

on the site
where a round building 

came down. (Was it
because of the architect, 

Sandy?) She’s just adjusting
the tiny barrels 

to get a closer look
at the way those leaves press 

against a wall.

Tinderbox

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Kerouac sees punks
in his 20th chorus—
all those who would fit
on a page of a breast 

pocket notebook. Leftover
ones dancing on the head
of a pin, I’ll get over this

disdain. I’ll listen again
when amphitheaters begin
to accommodate sleeping 

drunks. I was one
when the longing for nothing
I knew singed the soles 

of my feet. The pain made me
sleepy. Howl that one
at a guitar pick
moon—I dare you.

Onomatopoeia

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She takes the high road
through fog infested woods.
Nothing visible 

but the flight of leaves
as she rounds curves 

and moves on. That whoosh is

the voice of vertigo
she leaves behind when it’s time
to make a new noise.

Cul de Sac

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She might choose it
if the other ones prove too 

paved, or too ragged
without sidewalks. She can’t 

be without
sidewalks. Not for very long. He built it— 

he can curve around it
and drive in the opposite direction 

off the grid. She’s caught
in this dance with the dead 

ending. Knows she can find
another way out, take 

a look inside that patch
of sycamore. It wouldn’t be 

a bad time to take up
tree climbing again.

Aphasic (Day 2,773)

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Numb’s the word.
Just past summer 

solstice, no rain, muck
blows off 

as a dusty burst
of thoughts you may have—but 

they will remain trapped
in a cephalic void. The conversation 

is over.
I’m not ready. 

My jaw aches
from clenching 

teeth against the cruelty
of your disease. Look out, 

I can’t predict when
or where I’ll bite.

Withholdings

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A straight shooter, she
imagines everything becomes visible
on her face. Imagines she casts 

no shadow, is exposed
even when it rains. 

But 

into those blind spots go
whole narratives unfolding
with characters she didn’t invent 

roaming places she’s afraid
to step into—transparencies 

crumpled and torn, dark
rooms boarded up.

No Enclosure

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Her stomach won’t flip
to break hearts, she cannot
fathom being a begin 

parenthesis without
a promise 

of an end
somewhere down the ragged line. 

That she can think circles
around herself
is gymnastics enough.

Scar Control (Day 2,753: Take 2)

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A cool-down precedes another
runaway from the resurfacing 

of every tiny ache and sting
she’s known—by choice 

or not. Good 

sleeping weather, she hopes
to leave unwelcome 

reverberation on her pillow,
hopes to be able to say 

what she means to the aerial view
she’ll wave away 

as the plane takes her
to a reunion with other scraps 

she left behind
by choice. It’s a risk—that word 

and its closest relations.

Written on the Skin

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Total exposure before a second
full moon passes over 

the sky to our right is my wrong
impulse—the one I don’t have 

the courage to plunge into darkness.
I still can’t explain why 

a morning ghost
moon makes me want 

to believe in mystery’s propulsion
over city lights.

Rhymes with Guile

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To be remembered for this.  She’ll accept the evaporation 

of all other details in buckling concrete. 

Tree roots need somewhere to go.  The downturn 

confused with a bow arched toward rooftop wild 

flowers—it’s taken 

a lifetime to learn to let these curves 

cradle what they may.