Based in the bayou. Launched from the levee. Leftovers are we. 


Liminal Love

In the place of you, there is a stain, between the sheets

A pall of warm bitter sweat

As thick as the moisture that sweeps the dead and sleeping.

Bring me the very best things, in bows

I beg you in the garden 

And I will bring them back in pieces, in broken bits.

I put your breathing to sleep in the dark and narrow

Where you will wait and paint 

The space between the mattress and the wall.

While I walk this shallow trough, nearly drowning 

Mouth full of mud and mire 

You are crumpled and worn by the paper sounds of the past.

How shall this blue flame crest between us 

The burst of this liminal ooze

Out of the seabed for fossils sharpened as weapons.

How shall this broken peace bear its rotten fruit

In brimstone burning or in ice 

The end of something soft and strange and pale

The end of something nice.

A Man of Many Hours

Two Poems: On Being

Two Poems: On Being