Spring. The interior of molds. His chesta small mix of antiques & empty. A non-life.An invalid. Mother had always asked meto like an old room, find something one dayfor the past. Pleasure, so confusing. Used toverbalize fluid. In shock. The quiet was flyingon bereavement. Let go, realists. Facts lookedlike peanut butter. Town cornets in gloom.A wall against another wall as kitsch.This thick horn, raised on youth. A tombturned three books into a skylight.The outline of the city was mostly defeat.I heard the doorbell. I opened my door.You could call it reparation.
Outside, another lamplight looked at me,then an odd past burned from within.A crab that had shed one shell found anotherold radio. An oboe concerto. The front pageof a homosexual letter claimed all reformswould simply take over a dog’s toenails.Mine,…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, March/April 2025