Game Theory

There are these silences and then
the words in the middle, suffocating
out of love. That is to say, the love inside them
suffocates. Asphyxiated with a veneer of something
closer to common civility. But love bruises
so delicately. Like an apple in late November,
rotten fruit that will not reveal its ankles. Never
lay all your cards on the table. Everybody knows that,
even the gazelle who outruns the leopard only to fall
into the lion’s open maw. But I’m patient. I can wait
it out, live a little while the skies darken and the
moon comes into being, a curve just the sly arch
of Mona Lisa’s smile. I can bide my time while
the sun grows cold. After all, nobody said it
would be easy. In my dream, an apple made of blood.
Show me the blood in your mouth and I’ll show you – 
no. Your move.

Aubade at 5am

When I looked I did not see
My eyes were flooded with light, my limbs made of air,
as if there was no flesh, no matter, only shadow,
and blood welled in my heart,
and I could not breathe

It was the pain of beauty, the pain of love
It pierced me – it was so tenderly exquisite –
and my soul was a tendril of smoke
moving over the earth


What sunrise has come
to greet the day with a mouthful of blood?

By night, three old crones sat at their loom,
weaving the clouds blood-orange, passing
an eye between them.

Now immune, I am no longer afraid of
the inconstant spindle. I prick my finger
on the axle of fate. Draw blood.

Rotten fruit flowers from these stigmata.
In and out, in and out, the needle whips
the red thread through this useless cloth.
The four velvet chambers will not give it up.

La lune

The moon gleams in dolorous waves,
lulling the sea to sleep in the still muted
tide of night. Everything is quiet, slipping
into darkness, stupefied by dreams. Everything
spilling towards daybreak. Hush, hush. Listen
to the murmur of mice in their midnight beds,
the berceuse of night-blooming flowers, craning
towards the celestial. Listen to the hymns of
dark woods, the siren song of the salt sea, rippling
lyrics of love to mermaids. Now the owl puts forth
his question, which is answered by shadow
and a kind of gravity made possible
only by starlight.

Poppies, Seen in a Field

Blood flows out of these eyes,
blooming with yolk, the irises black.
Why do these hellish mouths open to me?
As if to scream death. Red skirts round
a waist of death. Do not weep your
heroin tears for me. Already I am
sick with the milk-white sap of life. In a
field of chrysanthemums and violets your words
are poison. The cornflower sky breathes in
your fumes. Are you not ashamed?
Close your mouths. Don’t sit there
gaping like fresh wounds.