May 2016

Never were knuckle-men.
Choked up on planks

of smoke, they haul
towards the peplum: stabbing

back at time, splinters of it
flip like cars. Rolled sleeves,

knees cooked, the rousie
is flirting with her broom, a blonde

with criminal simplicity with
historical truth we can detoxify

a poisoned planet. Now
they’re...

Ripeness was a semitone below
the bone clef of the elbow

keying the rain-slicked
cyclone fence: the firm, saclike rind

of a warped minim, golden
drupe note for which we longed.

Stone fruit are fine tutors.
This one unseals a sensual nose hit.

At dusk they go lambent
like...