Poetry

Do they ever discover new colors? He asks me.
He spends all of his time in cells so drab
no colors describe that emptiness.

then the scent of the chlorine seeps beneath the glass
doors into winter.
If dinner simmers
on the stove into summer, spring, fall. If

Our mother told us that if the headlights
which, nightly, swept the blackened
bedroom walls, were to halt, to stall
and hover above your pillow, throw their halos
over your head, your bed, you would be taken
in your sleep that night,

swiveling in from the ends to the hot nested scalp, it was meant to be yes, August,
this is what is happening when she busses the lather close.

spines, whole tunnel columns
knit out to carapace,
we muscle the chlorine up into
orange-hot cloud cover

then the scent of the chlorine seeps beneath the glass
doors into winter.
If dinner simmers
on the stove into summer, spring, fall. If

& bridge, holding roses in the cold
asian mint, jasmine, leather

Not to be undone, wedded
to which modeled universe, gods
spin prepositions, into,
from, between matter, galaxies

then the scent of the chlorine seeps beneath the glass
doors into winter.
If dinner simmers
on the stove into summer, spring, fall. If

When we lived in the blue house
the baby woke every morning
before light.