This is what he promised me:
August, and berries that fell
right into my hands; he
promised me handstands. He
promised me bees, he said
the nights would smell sweet
and wet flower petals would
stick to my toes. He said I'd
just know. He promised me
sparrows, and switchgrass that
crept past the hem of my skirt.
He promised me clean dirt, and
hard work. He promised an
August that I'd always remember,
then stayed 'til November.

I remember you like accidental
photographs: sun flare, skin,
the tops of trees. Knees. Your shirt-
sleeves in a dove grey breeze. (I arrange
the photos like a slow striptease.)

Your absence has drawn
fractions on my belly. It's
bisected the axis of my
heart; it has split me apart.
I am charts and statistics.
I'm percents. You were sharp.
So was I; when I left, I cut
those halves into fourths.
I left one in your bed, now
I'm three quarters saved
and one quarter spent.

woke every morning and
dressed in the sun, then
dreamt in the breezeway
where the day's laundry
hung. She listened for
him in the summery hum;
sometimes she was honey,
sometimes she was stung.

where the road ends
a hollowed-out husk
rests, smoking, ashen
                                      and if i could make myself believe
                                             the pyrotechnics were my own
you wouldn't have to
set your fires anymore

who are you
to peer beyond each thing newly
truly to
beyond peer things newing? (i mere things knewly

when yoully
were but twoly

truly.)

Beyond peer things

, wholy?

of all the world there writes beyond poems love.

in whose lips the dust o' fairies wafts half-sharp.


half sharp it wafts hard as girl hips.


fitting between easily hands(andthekissingofperhapsboys)

to each go singing
'pon the blithe dawn.





)for not is a word spoken more easily than Spring.

When beyond all poems writes
by the cherry heat of petaled fawns,

love.

you make me want
to write sonnets
but all i have left
in me are these
ashen tragedies