Poems

How easily the city is lost, leaves me / to see only what’s at hand: a sliver / of red brick and mortar, a pigeon roosting…

What do we call it, / the light that prisms and keeps / opening its monarch wings, and won’t / fold them or let them be…

In later paintings— / a Brueghel, a Dali— / a hill could also be a breast / grazed by clouds, the breast / of a woman lying on her back…

Sounds that twisted / around the room like smoke, / bludgeoning, blossoming, / where I did not want / to find them, but I find them / over and over.