It is quiet where I am and I have said very little

The tattoo of a spade on your arm
Warm rain dripping from the neighbour’s
balcony onto our teacups
Our yellowing plants
You say to me
Why have we waited so long
to observe the sun setting into the grey of
the newspaper covering glued onto the
glass wall, shielding us from the August sun

Long have I kept this lie inside the basin
of my lungs
I’ve allowed breath to travel half-way
burning back down

I cannot let you watch me write
just as I cannot have an audience with
you in my bed

I can meet you afterwards
A new woman
Maybe with new eyes
Clean, soft hair

From my hand I will let out a bird
That I have not eaten it in a ravenous want
of a voice your innocent heart can admire
means that in that moment I am free of all sin

I have hidden behind a desk for hours
Because our small lives are only beautiful
to me if their simplicity is turned into art
Maybe this is a perversion
Or maybe it is the only way it makes sense
Already there are not enough hours
in the day
for pleasure

In the thick of a quiet whisper of the night
In the melt of red sunlight onto our
balcony I want you to know
On an early morning I’d like to see you
Don’t tell me how you got there
Outside the floor length windows
is a field
And beyond: mountains
We are here forever



I feel an uninterrupted love
The vacancy sign above my bed
has burnt out long ago
A shortage in the fuse sizzling
into a flicker of last consolations

I lie on this bed in a black veil
Smoke rising from my fried hair
My head is on fire baby
Artemis is making her slow ascent
Sometime–I don’t know when exactly–
she will make her full entry
And by then I’m sure I will not even notice this pain


If the conditions are right
We can once again take a drive
I’ll say yes, I know this road
Know it in my reptilian brain
Used to drive down here every week
On the way to midnight

I dreaded the one stop light
that took ages to turn
Suspending me in a resentment
of the concentrated, neutral power
of objects

Ask me about the new city I’m in
and I’ll tell you I’ve already had time to
make bad memories
The street I don’t like to visit because the
tight spaces between the houses,
the houses and the sidewalk,
remind me of when I was thrown
like a marionette
from the edge of the world

A red light encompassing a field
we walked past
Dividing us from it faintly a steel fence
I was sure we were alone in the world
and separate from each other
That I was far from home
A menacing and incomprehensible dark
was stealing my words…
I was not talking fast enough
The edges of the world were not muted
separating like yolk out of a white silk membrane,
dripping from a domestic god’s finger, but sharp
Pointed from all sides in my direction

The Time is Up

We stopped in the parking lot
Of an elementary school
Across from a strip club
Adjacent to a Freemason hall

It was our first road trip

In the back of the car
On a hanger
strung up was your suit

I liked watching you hold on
to the steering wheel
with both hands

The smell of hot fabric seats
Bargain soap
The scent of you on your collar
bouncing between the windows

This is what I think of
when I notice a book
I never finished reading

If you only knew how
The idea of your body
Your curly hair
is tied to my habits


For a month or so

For a month or so
we were being terrorized
by a hair toucher

He had weaving fat hands
with short fingers
A fedora
And a brown cardigan
that encased his bilious stomach

He was always making out some
gulping sounds
but never saying any actual words

He’d rush in
to a stumped scene of young girls
and touch the hair of the nearest one
Maybe spring to a couple more
with glimmering eyes
Gulp Gulp Gulp