He’d collect the air in deep
deliberate breaths,
hold to the fragrant odors
like a wish, the rest
of us feeling sick.
Then he’d say, “The dead don’t smell.
Trust me. This you’ll miss.”
Manure
Category: Speaking of Tongues
The Garden of Earthly Delights
There is no epiphany,
but there is the cat,
trotting toward the canvas edge,
limp rodent – a rat
or squirrel – swings life-
less from its mouth, easy to
miss among the strife.
Afternoons
These portentous clouds
speed past. Light rises, falls in
waves. Your rapt pupils,
taken with shadows, dilate
and contract, the way
the breath of one who is seized
by passion quickens.
Affect
Happiness, like consommé,
comes, sometimes, in such
dizzying simplicity,
it’s impossible
to grant each spoonful
is real or enough until
one comes up empty.
