abattoir
my mother wore gloves like these
except --
she never used them to scrub blood from steel
they tear down the abattoir today
a hundred years of history, the sterile lifeblood of a century
washed down and bulldozed
back into the earth
ten skinning knives and twenty hands, a drop
like carmelized war on the edge of a blade
i like it here.
i lean my hands against the carcass, feel
the places my knife could slip, cut, disentangle
muscle from muscle from bone from skin
the perfect end to what God began
sweat on my skin, pure, the scent of earth -
it's in the floor here, in the walls, in the
windows
wide smiles
our bones the same as their bones, our flesh
laid open almost as often
our knives separating them at a touch
they will build a chemistry lab here
and on every counter, the stale crust of acid,
and under every tile, the buried scent of earth...
centrifugal
"i'm leaving in the morning."
you touch my hand, my eyelids.
curtains move by the window.
we were good together, but
you touch my hand. my eyelids
slip shut.
we were good together, but
everyone has to move on.
slip. shut.
there is warmth in the hollows of your palm.
everyone has to move on
to untouched arms in the morning.
there is warmth in the hollows. of your palm,
your face, my eyes carry the shape
to untouched arms in the morning.
their curves are the same.
your face. my eyes. carry the shape
into the morning.
their curves are the same.
follow the grind of carpet
into the morning.
fingertips
follow the grind of carpet
and teeth follow
fingertips
hum under your breath,
and teeth follow;
the pearly slopes of your lips
hum. under your breath
curtains move. by the window,
the pearly slopes of your lips –
"i'm leaving in the morning..."
untitled
i woke up drunk
because you were there beside me.
there were birds earlier, splintering the air
your arms were too slick to hold,
feathered here and there with rain;
i held your face instead, cradled it
in the crook of my neck.
you always did want a funeral in the rain...
st. christopher summer
those pretty thoughts
too long to grasp:
summer mornings, steeped into skin.
a dream, the ceramic handle
too long to grasp.
thinking back,
the ceramic handle
broke.
thinking back:
strange hostels, where we lingered,
broke.
early mornings spent finding more
strange hostels. where we lingered,
long shadows multiplied.
early mornings. spent. finding more
than we could forget.
long shadows, multiplied.
looking back – we touched more
than we could forget:
miles and miles of road.
looking back – we touched more
summer mornings, steeped into skin,
miles and miles of road,
pretty thoughts...
back to birds
dawn braces itself for the blackbirds.
the city weaves itself out of pavement squares and power lines –
silver leaves – winter – a bicycling transient –
silent windows over the thawing pavement,
morning’s dove-grey irises.
there are oil stains in its bones.
a fragile birch, still showing its bones,
waits for the dawning, painted with blackbirds.
its fingers impale the sky. irises,
milk-white, trickle down its trunk in crooked lines,
soak into the soil, fill up the pavement
from beneath with silver leaves. transient,
the blackbirds wait. transient,
the forming dawn is made of eyes and bones.
manholes sleep like iron windows in the pavement,
closely guarding the black. birds
arranged overhead in cryptic lines
begin to pull meat from the morning’s irises,
peck, and swallow, a thousand funereal osirises
gaining numbers in the new-dawning sun. a bicycling transient
watches their silent thawing. watches the power in the lines.
sharpened fingers support the morning’s bones.
on every knuckle, knots of blackbirds
drop petals of dawn on the pavement.
the transient is running out of pavement.
dawn rouses slowly, and the hollows that have been picked from its irises
form the shapes of blackbirds.
manholes cannot protect the birthing dawn, intransient,
barely covering the city’s bones.
windows watch in catatonic lines.
blind, the dawn finally chooses its battle lines:
- Edge of Puddle – Roof of Car – Mica in Pavement -
there are old refrains in its bones.
solid things seep up to feed it through the tree that ate its irises.
silver leaves engulf the transient,
rising in to the milk-blue haze of melting blackbirds,
and what lines did he carve on the pavement
to show the once-presence of his bones? there are no blackbirds
left. the manholes were transient. waking slow, opened windows smile with hungry irises.