Wednesday, May 27, 2020

Five poems for The Paris Review


Texture of an imitation of an imitation of her hairstyle. Here
the heart agrees

with my patter.


The mud the children track through sunroom
more imagination
than memory. If composing poems are a kind

of translation. If editing is a kind

of translation. If hiring some kid
to cut our lawn is a kind

of translation. Everything, perhaps, is translation.


This darkness, mere light. The practice
of ancient, and everyday. Letter carrier tethers, our

boundary of lawn. Twitter ethics: you can never step twice

into that same thread. Topography
of a thousand swoons.


Hardtack, dusk. I drink

like a glass of wine. Because time is a river and the breeze
is a river and the

dandelions are a river. Collect in their small hands, two
modest piles pool

on concrete steps. For now, spring flows
in their direction of laughter,

attention. Bottleneck, stars. Our street today

is toothless, present. An implausible word.


Unfastened, listen. They break for the house.

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