now in this
world we

build an
unseen

bridge
to a new

world
real

as a
numberless

clock
tangible

as a body
floating

in an
undiscovered

lake a
bridge

we build
with a

mind
quiet

as a
wordless

poem
we make

our way to
a destination

yet to
be known

yet to
be reconciled

it’s dusk as I
enter the grocery

a jug of distilled
water in my cart

in the cereal aisle
Octavio Paz is

constructing a
boat-shaped

sculpture with cereal                                        
boxes and asks

can we ever
escape this brutal

dream? the air
smells of tequila

and the pages
of an old book

I say I’m just here
for oat milk and

corn flakes—as my
cart drifts briefly

away from me and
he rushes toward me

kisses my forehead
and leaves the store

tears streaming down
his weary face

A salmon now,
I was a man,
a large brain.

My little boat,  
ninth bottle of
beer, trying to

stand, the sun
oppressive,
blinding then

sinking like
a 40 oz can
of malt liquor.

What was I
going to do
once I stood

*****? During
the pondering
I drown. Now

swimming
back to my
birth-stream to

lay eggs. I may
see lunch, a
worm or herring

then a hook in
my mouth,
I flop onto the

floor of a boat,
one eye looking
up as the

big knife
swiftly
comes down.

ghosts lost have
an aversion

to mirrors
no reflecting

on things
can’t sit still

with music
untenable as

the songs of
sparrows

or the howl
of a house

engulfed
in fire on

a frozen
winter night

An ardent young
woman captive

in a suburban
basement, now

reported missing
but I’m here

though you don’t
see me, no matter

how loudly I bark                                      
your real name,

sing your secret
needs, or tear

the scab off your
stifled yearning

while you sleep—
I am the obscured

object of your
aching night,

the blackest hole
in your desire.

Not the knife’s
butcher drunk
in the walk-

in cooler, nor
the finger-
printless gun

in the church
pew next to
a sleepy

hymnal, she
confesses, if
you want to

**** a thing,
strangle its
tender pink

throat—just
give it to
academia.

The room,
bone white,

painted
freshly,

the clear
glass of

water—
reflected

in the small
oval

mirror
—sitting

on the
well worn

seat of
a chair,

vivid,
illuminating

after-
noon sun.