Terry Cloth

My view of the old Ratner’s sign,
it once went,
now going when gone.

Three stories up flat asphalt sits,
as I did sit on parking
lot planes, a blue-ok, Florida, struggling writing
poems about flies in my poems.

Each-every-holiday stoked,
around, tiny pools the clear
juvenile (vision)

exhaust bent eastward,
south, at
island-ferry, lifted
explanations of self and
its heavy carriage, its heavy remorse,

a squared dance overlooking a risen

Cemetery Charles

Flying in from America, cruder contours’
rotted contents, rooting jokes, sequencing

hoax to puzzles,

dimmer, the least comprehending body:
Chief Librarian of Oswiecim. What do you

call…how does a…how many will it take…

damned (redbelly) pouch. Moroccan salt-
curl, taffy twisters, pealing bells, early


and hormonal cataloging with sex, with
sound. Clicking off, clicked off,

the stern gang, alienated, considering
the classified patience of East Amwell

desires a nightless sleep at home-tables,
a radiating thought: overturning skulls


Hamsun’s pale harbor companion, hand-
ling reported the fact of his thirst;

peaked isolation of her headscarves’

Stairwell Number

A large, red-grey twist of paper topics,
basted in liquid, sweat, chimney, smoke,

and folktales—

lead, miniature, unthinking filling a
pocket false, adjudicating a length

of denim dungarees.

The form taken, set atop a form un-given,
as charcoal swiped down hard, revealing

this commitment, dark below a narrowing
slate, aboard the hospital

corridor’s sloop, worthy, yet by an abstruse
series of monographs—


a season of line at my index fingertip
moves fallen, out of faith, petitioning,

imagining blessing, properties all too
tenuous for the

bearing of a mournful song.