A hermit bead of water | Lambswool winter day | Won’t you come into the shower with me? | Stillness of dissolving orgasm, mist | we wipe a name in or a child’s face | Putting down the last mirror, as if the last card in the deck: now, the game is over

Hush, and scrape of sticks on rock | Planet of silences, the mountain | knows its place, and it’s not with us | Scent of rock, sense of rock’s respiration, slow, millennial | At this altitude, very quiet, very still | The wedding rings of the deceased | placed in a drawer | just, fresh, not yet | quite | heirlooms

Solicitation of ghosts | Bare structures, walls of pale blue, sparsely pictured | a Swedish cabin, the space between our lips instants | before we kiss and after | we kiss | Are we alone? | When did she notice there was an angel in the room, the Virgin?

Change the world, and then breakfast | Victory, and peace | We drive past figures of the meek, who look uncertain, bemused at their inheritance | Now, tell me, is there a finer thing in life than to write a poem? | To bring words to their spring, and let them grow | cocksure for summer? | Poems are another love

Won’t you come into the shower with me?


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)