lens is ancient and crusted with a film of
old blood of the skies and
liquidy fragments of soul that fall from eyes
souls that brush up against the glass
again and again:

the woman with hot black nest of hair
and strange greyish (bone grey flesh) that was
my muse in the winter of nineteen
when she swaggered between warm pockets,
smoked in her t-shirt and apron-
blades of wind
carving out of her
a masterpiece

woman with brown brown riverstone
eyes, settled in bruisy crescents. woman
with the stones (petrified ghosts) that
swung heavily from her neck, my muse in the spring
of nineteen in the trees heart wrapped in musky fabric and
feet wrapped in leather. god she was
beautiful:cloaked in the reddened husk
of shrinking sunlight, hands curled around
my every word

muse in the summer of nineteen. man with
ruthless, undefined lips, long body charcoal
smudged by a sweaty thumb edges nonexistent
neverspoke of evil never heard of
the brand of love i made
came and went without a sound-

flock of blackbirds, oceanheave,
death parting her lips

We walked home along the river, eyes puckered like mouths ******* on secrets,
mouths tight like angry fists.

And my feet grew clumsy under winter's crush
so i held onto his arm to keep from crumpling
as he wordlessly cut through the night, its jagged particles sawing into his ruddy face.

I nattered and moaned as my feet slipped along the glassy path
and we stopped in a convenience store,
wilting a bit beneath its bleached glow
and he bought me chocolate bites to redeem himself for earlier
evils.

Within the place we shared i curled up with the sweets
hot and muddy on my tongue while he fried himself potatoes
quietly and made a few extra for my crawling fingers to steal.

And the cold slowly seeped from me,
i could feel it rushing to the surface of my flesh,
blood dethawing, veins exhaling, skin rising in faithful protest.

He entered the room and I payed no mind.
Our bruisy silence continued until slumber took the reigns.

you cut holes in your sweaters
and stick your thumbs inside
and color your nails with markers
like koi in a meadow of fairy moss
you eat the words straight off the paper of your favorite novel
you don't wear shoes
your knees are bruisy
and i watch you taste literature
like it's your last meal

A bruisy trumpet of cloud spills
upward from tower-top neck,

faceless grey guyser
pluming from brick bottle.

No wishes are granted today:
instead, the sponge-honey skulls

of dithering sidewalk elms
dream their green dreams over us

as the sun falters for a moment,
scattered through the lawn.

Come slip like shade
into my outstretched hand,

walk with me in an afternoon
somewhere between rain and fever.

Bruisy clouds slouch across a grayed glower
on a brisk, anesthetized Tuesday.

All these people, coming and going on the walk,
ignoring the sobs of the frayed man who digs

squelched cigarette butts out of the mulch
packing the dead-headed elm at the bus stop.

I cook a small lunch that threads the studio
with citrus fingers, above the coal painting

that dries flat on the Sicilian game table,
but my mind is elsewhere. I am thousands

of miles from this bricked-in niche where scotch
and stout stand sentinel on the granite bar:

I am walking step by step through Lansdowne,
past the silent salt-nose of each slate-slanted house,

on my way to the sand where the power plant
reaches upward with muscled black arms

so that even the froth withdraws into a curtain
of coming rain... strange, always a gray rain,

that comes so quickly. It heavies the sweater
of the yellowed dog-walker, steadies the rasp

of the cigarette digger, peppers the mirror
that spreads its silver shell across the asphalt.

This littling rain calls me back from Sandymount
and its endless bench. The black paint is dry now,

& the old year has died, flung to the floor like a rag
you cough into when you breathe the wrong way.