May Day the refrigerator turns itself off


a screen door slams shut the scent of approaching rain


you haven’t called your hat behind the cushion on the couch


a vent closed for the winter the wasp on its side in the dust


a power outage in the matchbox just one acorn


on the dashboard the sudden sunlight glints off a ladybug


I open my suitcase and catch your scent again


one slat on the bridge still dark something that fell echoes


out of the rain I smell the rain a saw starts up


the gnat that was resting on my head she claps between her hands


where someone walked the grass has lost its blue sheen of dew


flickering incandescent light pinned by a bottlecap a cranefly


pretending I don’t know it’s there I ask about your tattoo


the smell of heather under the bridge the black water makes no sound


she says it’s like eating a pecan after having walnuts


a sudden downpour in a doorway someone’s uncollected mail


it’s still warm at sunrise in the empty tea cup a white feather


my tea tastes like your perfume birch leaves slapping in the rain


a shiny cherry wedged unblemished in a crack in the pavement


yellow dawn waking up to the taste of vomit on your lips


a slightly swaying chain dandelion seeds float by


in the car in the dark we stop talking the seatbelt rolls itself up


in the shade of a giant oak gas pumps wrapped in white canvas


the anguish of snails something to do with flourescent light


we make love I think about skeletons and batting averages


the tea’s steeping a phone message from the middle of the night


I see your name in the paper an ant in a drop of honey


the crow in the road refuses to move a thunderstorm at dusk


when I look back the light is gone from the blue pine


stuck in the milky thistle a few strands of blond hair


almost summer rain a part of the pan that won’t come clean


a few sparks leave the smoke and spiral up into the night sky


silence on the phone a spider darts out from the matchbook


without asking you write something on your hand with my pen


the lights stay off the warm toothpaste rushes from the tube


rummaging in the dark my hand finds a warm apple core


swollen in the shallow creek a novel open near the center


passing through the branches a few drops of rain hit the clover


the last train leaf shadows made by the flickering streetlight


reeds bent by a wet blue skirt the first bat circles and disappears


Fourth of July your sunburn turns purple


cracks in the asphalt still dark with rain the smell of roses


the only light on the one above the store I hear that wasp again


too hot to sleep she mutters about shovels and gazelles


looking at the veins on your hand I think about the planet Neptune


bits of paper fall from the book I found under the cushion


fastened by a tangle a strand of hair cuts into the apple peel


up through the pine cone on the patch of dirt a tiny yellow flower


between branches of the juniper a snail eaten piece of paper


the foundation separates from the house ants carry off a beetle


flickering lights your hair smells like pines in the summer dust


dusk turns grey and hazy and breaks off into several angry girls


through the screen door everything blue but the white phone in your hand


piled up on itself a silver chain in the dirt the apples are turning red


on the blanket on the grass a few magazines their different odors


other analogous rifts in your story about the plums


new moon here and there the potholes in the alley lit blue by tv’s


you’ve forgotten my name a tufted seed floats down


fluttering in the wind the papers on the board reflect the evening sun


rug burns on my knees I feel them in line at the post office


you ask me what it’s like to be neutral I tell you I don’t know


the house gray in the dusk where the sprinkler leaks a few weeds


now we’re just friends you change out of your bathing suit in my car


the river a deer wades across stopping for a moment to listen


feeling empty I let my finger find the sticky spot on the table


the spare tires under the stairs a dead mouse curled on its side


left in a paper cup a nail with its head broken off


blown down by the wind stiff white washcloths holding their shape


the seed embedded in a hole eaten in the wood has sprouted


in the folds of cloth a few pinecones their recesses still darker


rose petals of no particular color scattered on the dead grass


tilted on its side your shoe leaks sand the shadows are lengthening


ripping the paper into strips he stands up then quickly sits down


the water runs out of my mouth a little warmer than before


sudden gusts blow the willow branches across the lit store window


you’ve come for the money I answer the door in a towel


the room darkened by clouds an entire web floats to the ground


halfway down the stairs with the broken lamp I go back up


a crow with one foot pecks at pennies in the dry fountain


part of the teabag that won’t submerge I follow your freckles


the words I cut out from the letter turn up in your shoe


shining in the streetlight the sap bursting from the pine cones


your house you show me the books the bed the water damage


grown through the wheels of the bicycle blackberry vines


I try to think about what to tell you there’s a rock in my shoe


last week’s paper tearing open the plastic I find a beetle


behind your body a word written on the wall in chalk


midnight I smell a fire a fly keeps thumping into the mirror


where we slow to talk the grass a bit brown the war is invisible


August smog the wind ceases a few acorns drop to the ground


blue jays chattering some cherry pits left on a three of diamonds


in the dust in the corner the curling tops of tea packets


waking briefly I smell the apple I took one bite from


drifting among the shadows on the wood floor a white seed pod


a candy wrapper held down by a stone rustles in the breeze


her bloody toe three wasps circle the iron girder on the bridge


hundreds of brand names for less I swerve to avoid a black sock


a cricket behind the dryer from the doorway the smell of apples


at your house my body looks different in the mirror August twilight


the cashier’s working on a crossword puzzle I drop the walnut


wearing nothing but boots I listen to the crickets


hot night the shadows of the fan a little nauseating


a ripple across the curtains the note you started still on the table


August dusk the green lights in the parking lot come on


reading the lives of great people I shave a little more frequently


waking from a nap two red pushpins from work in my shirt pocket


the sudden downpour drowns out your voice on the phone


the last drips from the tea bag swirl darkly into the rest of the tea


cool August evening in the shopping cart some crushed daisies


a black summer rain between two posts a spider sways in its web


in the tall weeds a spoon and fork dull where the shade encroaches


over the warped fence a single cluster of ripe blackberries dangles


leaning your bicycle against my car you tell me what to expect


underneath the blankets in the closet a gumball still in the wrapper


swollen and leaking an unopened carton of milk in the russet weeds


following me from room to room a gnat tries to get in my mouth


slipping from the envelope the letter came in a button from your shirt


where the screw loosened from the outlet a blade of grass emerges


one tied to the other floating down the river a pair of shoelaces


some noise in the dark kitchen it must be the potatoes






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