distilled water
in my basket

in the cereal aisle
Octavio Paz is

constructing a
house-shaped

structure with cereal
boxes and says

In my body you search the mountain
for the sun buried in its forest.

In your body I search for the boat
adrift in the middle of the night.

I say I’m just here
for oat milk and

corn flakes and he
rushes toward me

kisses my forehead
and leaves the store

tears streaming
down his face

A salmon now,
I was a man,
a large brain.

My little boat,  
ninth bottle of
beer, trying to

stand, the sun
oppressive,
blinding then

sinking like
a 40 oz can
of malt liquor.

What was I
going to do
once I stood

*****? During
the pondering
I drown. Now

swimming
back to my
birth-stream to

lay eggs. I may
see lunch, a
worm or herring

then a hook in
my mouth,
I flop onto the

floor of a boat,
one eye looking
up as the

big knife
swiftly
comes down.

ghosts lost have
an aversion

to mirrors
no reflecting

on things
can’t sit still

with music
untenable as

the songs of
sparrows

or the howl
of a house

engulfed
in fire on

a frozen
winter night

An ardent young
woman captive

in a suburban
basement, now

reported missing
but I’m here

though you don’t
see me, no matter

how loudly I bark                                      
your real name,

sing your secret
needs, or tear

the scab off your
stifled yearning

while you sleep—
I am the obscured

object of your
aching night,

the blackest hole
in your desire.

Not the knife’s
butcher drunk
in the walk-

in cooler, nor
the finger-
printless gun

in the church
pew next to
a sleepy

hymnal, she
confesses, if
you want to

**** a thing,
strangle its
tender pink

throat—just
give it to
academia.

The room,
bone white,

painted
freshly,

the clear
glass of

water—
reflected

in the small
oval

mirror
—sitting

on the
well worn

seat of
a chair,

vivid,
illuminating

after-
noon sun.

Glide, loop, float
gulls on a
crisp breeze.

Trudging with
groceries, an
elderly man.

Dim blue glow,
a clock—what
this long in-

complete life
sees in the
wondering dark.

Death, so close
to the mail-
box at noon.

Glide, loop, float
gulls on a
crisp breeze.