For Orpheus Who Made Stones Weep

Would that I could take you with me in my pockets

girl carved from Parian stone;

would that you could be Eurydice,

and I an Orpheus of sterner stuff composed,

or drawn, at least, by less ardent a desire.

I would be happier, now, if we hadn’t met

if I were going home empty-handed

bereft not just of you, but of the feeling

of your fingers coiled about mine like unkempt string

your breath soft against my cheek as you whispered

your uncreatable voice,

and worse yet, missing the fact of you,

lacking the knowledge that you exist

that it is possible for someone—anybody—

to be you. Such woe would be joy in place of this one.

Now here is a sadness to keep in the heel of my shoe

to be woken by every like sorrow

and stirred by each new melancholy

as I am stirred now;

here is a moment to return to

when I need to feel a certain way

a place to consider what has been and will be lost to me,

an intersection of all time.

I know not how my marble girl calls for me, or whether;

she can’t speak and I must not look back.

Our song is silenced forever.

David

David stands proud on two stone legs

boy champion of God before the earth

sling in hand, the strength of Israel,

naked, a giant in his eyes.

 

Octopedal Rhythm

What is with this bug

that stays on the floor

legs perched, ready to hop

​​hop—away from the end of

a file folder with the end turned down

and both sides of a broom

to turn up,​​up

in some other spot on

the same floor, with the

same legs to the ceiling.

Out, out—before Susana sees you

out with the coming of day

and light that gets on everything

beyond the drum and hum of this kitchen

and the crumbs on the floor which bring

ants which bring spiders who come

through the cracks on the windows and floors.

Please get out. I’m asking you

as a fellow-creature, who’d have you know

that if it were up to me, you could stay where you are

and the girl and I’d tiptoe around in our socks

knowing this acreage used to be yours

back mothers and mothers and houses and lines

of bugs who looked nearly you,

too close for our big eyes.

We’d whisper a prayer while watching our steps

to think—how we’ve got where we are,

you in your bug-holes and us in our cars

and all of us now on the kitchen floor,

Susana, you, and I.

Electronegative Beat

Pull, sway

the forces between us

each atom grabbing at everything else

holding together, making weight,

snatching at heat,

pulling back against the flight from that first force

a diaspora from the universal heartbeat,

bending space around us, curving lines.

As our air thins and the heat gets out

stars die off and light fades from every world

skies break and systems fall apart

and nothing stays—

as everyone falls and everything scatters

we’re here, bound together, piece by piece,

me tuggin on you and you tuggin on me

in two ways.

 

Take One

I said that I would call again

but I feel we’ve already said goodbye.

Forgive me. I want the feeling to last,

you on the swings and me on the grass

us waiting out the setting sun:

nothing hangs and everything lingers.

We got it in take one.

Ecclesiastes 3

Everyone looks good when they’re smiling
except me. My hair looks nice when it’s wet,
but not in photos. My eyes are green when it’s sunny and
brown when it rains. My teeth aren’t quite straight.
There are months when you’d almost call me skinny,
and months I don’t even fit in those old, grey jeans.
There are moments I think of removing my glasses. I put them on again.
There are days to walk the dog in your pajamas,
nights to sleep in school clothes,
afternoons when it’s okay to muss your
hair against those hard, wood desks,
hours for unkempt shoelaces
weeks not to give a damn
years to figure it out, over and over,
lives to live, appetites to find in the dark,
a thousand ways to be.

First Page

Hello, book. I apologize
if I have been presumptuous;
we’ve just met and I am defiling your pages.
90 sheets
smooth pure clean
no 40% recycled shit 
or construction paper feeling
right angles and perfect lines
debased by my uneven scrawl
and this blotting pen:
perverted white serenity

Ant Killer

I’d kill ants for you, boy,
smash that hill in your backyard
with those old brown boots your dad wore.
I’d leave the lights on in my room
take showers in the afternoon
pull leaves off bushes, bark off trees,
kick dogs—do every awful thing
for you, because you’re not the kind
to pluck the wing-parts off of flies
throw trash out of a moving car
pick petals off of flowers in their prime,
tell Alaina Falco that her
haircut looks like shit,
or kiss with evil on your mind
ant-blood dripping from your hands or mine,
wax up your ears and close your eyes
and let the world pass on without you,
because you’re sweet, and you’re nice,
and you love too much
to break what fits between your fingers,
to black out, to turn off the earth.
Come here, my lad, and sit on the grass
legs crossed—let’s not disturb
the dandelions—lean over, and whisper in my ears
a thousand ways to be kind.
Breathe you in me, and let me be
one-tenth of the boy who waves ducks onto the sidewalk
one-hundredth of the guy who stayed up with Aaron Soh
one-billionth of the force that drives the feeling
and any part of you, you,
with your newsboy cap, and that
straight-lined gap between your teeth,
you, my guy, with your polyester ties
and that vest you wear without its three-piece suit,
dressed down and around for the anyone to see—
let be, let be, let any part of me.