Didn't I tell you
That my garden was not to be played in?
That there is a sanction of land fenced-in
Only for me?

Don't play innocent,
I know you jumped the fence;
You tore up the flowers I had planted
In that beautiful garden, mine.

Don't act like you didn't know
That the white pickets were
To keep out children
Like yourself.

I'll never forgive you,
Even though the wind in the grass whispered your name.
Rows of poppies beckoning for you,
Claire.

on awaiting an arrival,
on attend une arrivée
alone, all one, all on
nous allons attendre
ensemble, on sweet
moments pregnant
with nothing, and

I have breathed sighs the colour of your eyes;
Spoken words that felt like the worn cotton threads of your shirt;
Slid my hands across shelves sharp as the straight line of your jaw;

My fingers, stiff as steel, are colder than the way my name slides off your tongue.

I. Orpheus

My dog flees from pluckèd strings;
her fleas command my tune.

What hollow body holds a rhyme
as long as my neck’s breath?

I could domesticate myself,
but in taming our lions
we tame our pride.


II. Abel

My brother is his brother’s keeper.

I am uncle to no abomination.

As we lie in the Garden,
(our hair in the earth)
I question:

Is Heaven above
because our heads are the seat of doubt, or
because our feet are the root of evil?


III. Hector

I was not breast fed.

I am not a fountain.

I will not hector you.


IV. Adam

Even if He and I practice Our secret handshake
in the Sistine Chapel;

Even if He sends me an angelic bath basket
with ambrosial soul cleanser
and holy bubble bombs;

Even if I am the round reflection
of an ever-changing God;

I still have to ask:

Is Heaven above?
Because my head is the seat of doubt.


V. Odysseus

Poseidon hardly even knows me.

An idle king in heart
reigns with a swift lead open hand.

Life’s lees are far too bitter,
far too deep,
and the wine is corked.


VI. Atlas

The sky may fall;
the stellar sphere may crash with all its weight
and music;

god(s) may smite;
the clouds may freeze and bury me;
the sun may swallow me whole;

leaves may drop and leave me bare;
the mist may soak my skin;

I raise my arms only to catch
that snowflake that dares drift upward.

This is no spring that wakens at the dawn
what should have been awakened all along.

I feel the warmth of winter through the breeze
stay buried in the bone of sleepless trees,

whose buds are fat and seasoned with the salt
left waiting for a snow that did not fall.

And should they waken now, how they would find:
capricious spring has left them all behind.

Single hair left in my bed
Remind me how the rain is shed;
When in old age, do cloudy tufts
Surrender from the skyey head?

"No, no; the drops like rice are stuck
Upright into the paddies' muck
And being pulled from one hillbrow
Are in another gardenbed tucked."

I disagree; when clouds are blown,
They hold their weight as seeds unsown.
It's when we let them lie with us,
The clouds, the locks of love are grown.

Kiss upon my lover's nose:
It is for you the blossom grows.
Notice now it fans itself
Beyond the bough and hither flows.

Or else the scents came forth aroused
Not by those lips but by their boughs
Who shook and left them to the lake
With whose waters we are daily doused.

But could we shake the scent from trees
And drink the petals' milk as bees,
We might not lead our lips astray
And plant wet kisses where we please.