Poetry

When she left, / then returned, / a determined look / on her wet face, / he assumed she’d / come to retrieve / something forgotten

The next-to-smallest finger of my left hand, / embedding my ring in its bulging flesh, / a fat tree swallowing a chain-link fence

You yourself are never an ending, / never collapse like the pinsetters’ set-up / or vanish like the smudged pencil

You’d see them hauling speakers at a gig, / drinking Cokes and fondly reminiscing / about that night (the ketamine! The wig!)

The snapped lights-out in my childhood bedroom / where roses on satin turned ghost-pale by streetlamp

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