On the road, my husband didn’t know / this, my last night out. / Our bungalow always open / told no secrets.
Maybe you’re proof- / reading pamphlets, eyes weakening each word, / maybe envisioning pigment in petrified insect, / color of its final prehistoric meal—bird’s blood?
Outdoors, toss the water into any wind at hand. / Trace a ripple in the page’s grit. / Smear each eyelid with a pinch of silt.
This poem is jealous of everyone who is normal. / This poem doesn’t care about cheeseburgers / or paradise—it only eats them when it’s drunk.
When it gets dark / and has been dark for a long time, / something changes. / A self-conceived epistemology / materializes at the foot of your bed,/ takes off its heels and black dress / and begins to smile at you, / and somehow, you are once again, / able to call yourself Cartesian,
It’s Monday: a spreadsheet, empty and full / of numerical potential. The light in the office / is the color of my hangover. The coffee tastes automatic, / pressed by a machine—the printer smells electric / and inky and warm