The Great Wall of China is a series of fortifications made of stone, brick, tamped earth, wood, and other materials, some of which include: chips of cloven hooves, beating in rhythm with a grand conqueror on high, brethren united in one charge; sweat of a migrant, summertime rain cooling between his shoulder blades, stones callusing fingers; blood of one and many terracotta men, giving their lives for God and king; new silk chewed up by moths; jade and chrysanthemum, a nobleman’s wife’s treasury; sun and wind, a flood, grace of a new emperor - my life, reaching backwards into pockets of rice fields, scholars’ tables, great-grandmother’s childhood castle, everything I know.

time is a forever we hold for a second
blinking past us, gone

Suburban’s the only place open this late so we slide
into the red slicker seats, feet locked into orbit, knees chaste:
against the checkered table our hands grasp
empty space, separate by twos.
Graveyard workers chug past, silent ships on a still sea.
Grey-faced one asks to take our order
specials falling off her tongue
by rote, routine, and
on instinct I ask
for the two-for one cheeseburgers and a side of curly fries:
“extra crisp” you used to chime in;
smile in your eyes now
you say
none for me
thanks.

in midwinter noon’s light your fingers shudder out concerto number three
on the insides of your cheek
in the hollows of your thighs
prickling beneath your ribs
swollen heart
knees that cave so, just so

split second they called you beautiful
golden under the lights
but many hours more you oxidize
feet
rusting varnish green
rusty blood that stems, slowly, slowly

they say the music dances through the one she loves, a body and life anew
i once saw the night embrace you as a lover
did you love her back?
did you love me back?
or were we to have and to hold and to throw
across the room
reborn as something less

The vineyard growing out
of decrepit stationmaster’s hovel flays
the skin of buses and trains alike
faces long and
pe eli  n   g.

Atop a rubber sea I wade,
sunlight ebbing awash
on my strong shoulders;
in pinks
purples
blue and green and grey.

The soot of early midafternoon chokes
up, curling down
my spine,
hug from a friend
in the skeleton of a regulation
seat my mind lays
to rest, soporific
sweet.

Here lie the ruins of a plainsman’s kingdom,
ghost fox says.
Here lie the dust
y wings of Corvus corax, grey
in age. Here lie the
loves and the
dreams and the
hearts of my
ancestors
wholly unholy in their pagan worship,
but:
the vineyard is a graveyard is a home
wild to hold
tame at heart
and there lies my body,
(anything I want it to be)
grapes a-swinging just out of reach-

The fox gets his prize
how sweet it tastes on my tongue.

In the weeks leading up to your death there was no fire in your lips and no water in your eyes and you seemed happy for a turn so I let it be; when you licked into my mouth and it felt like feather candy, like I’d ticked off all the right choices, no red lines and I thought that we were safe. As you curved under the inside of my birdlike wrists and fed me praise, kisses where you projected cuts I had no heart for sight and but knots to stomach, that you loved me a little bit. I loved you less than a bit, then, but maybe it was always like that. I wake up to your shoes strung on a wire and that is fine but; i see you strung on a wire and things are not fine.

and everything that she is touches something raw and scared within you
this mirror image haunting flames
licking from within
you wonder if in your youth you looked like that though you are the same age as her
you wonder if you look like that right now

you don't feel right if you're not in pain and that might be what hurts you the most

so the summer nights slip
through your fingers once again
grains of sand in an hourglass
a beach
fireflies shine bright take flight leave your eyes
wide
and dull

a minute on the stage you are resplendent as a thousand suns, refracting
ten thousand hours you are the shade of worn soles, warehouse practice rooms, old blood and baby powder,
unpretty.
and glorious

you hear their anger, like a bullfight and your ribcage is the ring
your heart is the rodeo clown,
his job is to take the hits
if you’re not fast enough
you’re not good enough

sawdust on your lips, in your hair, falling. the early morning tastes sweet, chill before dawn stinging your cheeks. you think you've done good.

‘do you like it?’ you ask, though you don't know how she'd tell you, locked up in this pretty box you've made for her. still, you poured your love into it. you want her to say yes.

the five o’clock sunrise leaves you hanging.