The procession of taillights lined deep down the logging trails.
Along the way, there was a gentleman arguing with his soul
over his suicide.
yellow eyes are slightly open. Behind the wheel
the tiger snacks on the summer of 1970 and
the entire works of Iris Murdoch.
Philadelphia. We had no idea
where we were, how much history
had come before us—how much
cruelty, how much more dying
was on the way. For me and Terry,
it was a time when everything said
time continuum where not even my imagination
will find you? Your last broadcast
like the final song of our beloved parakeet
as it flew past the leafless trees toward
the vast dome of heaven.
slathered on, forcing me out
in a cloud of confidence
that I was the Calvin Klein
Man, not the Old Spice
folklore and rhymes and family lies.
The species similar otherwise:
cicadas books call periodic,
mark this down. We've paid our dues. Our hearts are inscribed
with loss after loss." For some reason, after everything, our rib cages
held up and continued to cradle tender hearts. They must have figured
that all the prayers and careful teachings would prevent bruises
that would weaken us. Our love for those homely animals was deep