I am in search of a word/ that stows away all the brittle silences./ The syllables/ must echo the

The world seeks to know the origin of grief in the body—how a house/ loses everything at

Do not even try/ To understand me/ For I understood/ Long time/ No one is able to/ Just be here

Forget/ Neglect/ Forgive/ The more/ careless/ the quieter progress/ Starved/ Drip/ fed/ Parched

The bridge(,) the avenue(,) trees like staves/ Here we are notes or blackbirds/ Today I looked

from outer space/ (where they come from)// reach a limit—/ thin skin// as if a laugh/ were they way

The sirens lulled me in/ I moved closer to the sea/ A quiet dreamy state/ Slowly enveloping me.

It has the exact weight and texture/ of something still alive –/ all its own colours each pale hair

Eyes black, deadly ashen face with the pearl’s tears/ creating the new path to the sky.// So it soars up

A mother’s love will always draw her back/ On that cramp and narrow road/ Where corn dries

The house was all noise and confusion,/ too bright and full of people -/ then a knock at the door, full

At which hour the harsh winds blow and churn out the desire/ At which hour the dews of prospect

you remind me of the rhythms in myself-/ no house to play to/ or the sound in someone else-

At river's edge in late October/ As autumn leaves began their fall/ My eyes beheld an angel there

The arrow of time/ flies forward./ It flies through/ snack bars/ and waiting rooms/ where we come

Mr. Montefusco, the combination/ of your Italian lineage,/ your cool nickname: The Count,/ your

The Fujiwhara Effect/ sounds elegant off the tongue/ belying the danger/ double hurricanes collide

We stand, move on cue./ We stand in queue./ Our position is/ Is no more subtle than/ The proposition

Sturdy jackets, collars up./ Raspail in the afternoon./ White plums in the sky/ ruffled as if painted on./ Empty

They say we all have dreams/ of flying. Well, I don’t, not the/ ones where your running shoes/ are