Articles

This time is sacred for the good or bad 
it could become but isn’t yet. For the phone 
that doesn’t ring but might. 
Ma nishtana ha-laila

All the flies in the valley were buzzing at the windows, wingflits
fizzing the afternoon bright as sparkling water. As they
were our only neighbors, we climbed the loft ladder clothed
and descended it naked, proud not to have clocked our heads

Naked on the front porch, the moon unfurling its light
as though for a picnic, our yard is silver
and set for feasting.

There’s no record of the figs,
familiar in their plum-like, seedy luster.

I thought if I found the right one I could heal
my cousin’s sty. Just a hotel lobby

In every life, a moment or two, for goodness sake. “Pregnant jade rabbit enters purple heaven.”

“Every word,” wrote Beckett, “is like an unnecessary stain on silence & nothingness.” He doubled down on this

In last night’s dream, I collected my dead mother in my arms. Sky overhead, where whole weather systems bruised & healed, bruised & healed. A

Seagulls of Cardiff, small gods of the unravel,
trash-blusterers, street screechers, chimney-pot clouds
sweeping yourselves away to sky

About attribution, they were apparently
often wrong, the art curators, so they’ve made a game

called Find the Real Bosch: ten fantastical canvases
grouped on a wall: the strange and ordinary equally

For example: breath. For example: a father.
Or dawn chewing up fireflies, raking the stars

down to campfire ash. The child you’ll spend longer
grieving than raising, the sea’s