There are days
I want to sit with you
as children playing
in the dirt,
watch ants
busily working,
and listen to wind
brush aside branches
of trees the way
my hand moves
hair from my face.

The ground will reclaim
us someday,
when we can no longer
love like we are twelve.
As the ground reclaimed
Schliemann’s childhood
dream (treasure).
No, even great Achilles
mystic as he was
could not escape

And the ground
will reclaim our cities:
New York, Boston, Detroit,
my childhood home
in Kansas
where my friends
live their lives
on the same plot of ground
that will retake them.
Not death,
just breath–flash of light.

the ground is willing
to reclaim
anyone; me
all I am
my words erased
when I no longer
have energy to speak
and I cannot hope
for more than this
day sitting
with you,

on the ground
(perhaps a sandwich
and lemonade).
What more could I hope?
except hope
our memory
will be remembered.


There is a man
living in my bathroom
and I dare not ask
his name,
or why he sits
and watches
while I brush my teeth
in the mornings.
And I know he is there
as I leave
and turn off the light
for he laughs–
his laughter the sound
of my footsteps.


the poem starts

something like
[i]but they came back
for him[/i]

[i]dragged him out
to the sidewalk and
beat him into a coma then
walked away[/i]
and what more do
you need?

this is the event
spelled out as
simply as possible

it happens

not for
the sake of art
and not to reveal some
deeper truth but
because violence is
as effortless as

because it needs
no reason

imagine a
rusted spike driven
through the eye
of god

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