Oy

Oy
the hollow men,
and the women they think
about, and the men they dream
about, and the hollowness that
entails.

Oy
the wondering
of the wounded, and the auctioning
of the offered, and the gendering
of the neutered, and the continuity
that entails.

Oy
the sallow fish,
and the waters they cry for,
and the barking tides they
try for, and the hooks of schoolmates
sighed for, and the bubbling black
oils
on their tails.

Wish

A placing compass,
a pebble,
a capsize in the curved lurch–

a somersault ever-forward,
fingering;

the dampening sand’s crumble,
the line.

Her Seeing Night

They came,
red dark bursts of flame,
thirty-six letters spun,
living deeds,

unloving pupils, bumbling tongues.
Their foundation—a high
mountainous host of world-lent
reputation,

built talk upon silent song;

blood-caked, lashing purple,
magnifying the gaping electorate.