|
The Manhattan Review 10, 2
Spend all your time just
staying. It makes sense to
chain smoke. Your death
has made me
shade against the fading,
object to moving. The resentment
is shared.
_top
The New York Quarterly 59
Survivors don’t need
short dresses with
love, a rodeo
of slow. People
applauded this.
Thirty years of subtle,
and yet he was still.
Drunk in his midnight.
It bites like Wild.
Everything’s still going
to be.
_top
Washington Square 11
The bottle still
reads “Drink Me.”
A ceiling looks
believable. Maybe
medicinal. A mouth
rearranges.
_top
_print this page
_main
|