on my hand the knife paints
a red line. red string of fate
red, red, where do all seas
flow to red when the sky is red
sky sailor’s delight dawn rising
red even as red the seas flow
when red like my palms red-pink
flow bloodred my heart red burning
red who came up with that color red
a flower grows from the crack red on
my hand red death red bloom
where does the red go when
red the red wail fish-eye siren-song
red all red who wants to drown me
in red when red the sky bloodens
and wild the birds winging red
red death
red cry of death
on my hand the knife paints
a red line

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.