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Poetry 3.3

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Poetry, Vol. 3.3, Sept. 2009 The living room is dark save for the white dog. Moonlit and snarling. It is...
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Poetry, Vol. 3.3, Sept. 2009 I’ve reached Los Angeles. Now where is it?1 I wrapped it in yesterday’s headlines. Somewhere...
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Poetry, Vol. 3.3, Sept. 2009 A small throat, but the grocery carts are rolling. I am a landmark: at least...
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Poetry, Vol. 3.3, Sept. 2009 Again I prick a finger on my vine bed in this snowy Yukon forest and...
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Poetry, Vol. 3.3, Sept. 2009 And I come from a city so holy the shopping store break rooms are filled...
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Poetry, Vol. 3.3, Sept. 2009 5PM dusk when everything blurs here in West Falls Church: flurries & the last pink...
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Poetry, Vol. 3.3, Sept. 2009 I was 3 weeks late when I called my sister. We sat on her back...
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Poetry, Vol. 3.3, Sept. 2009 1 A woman shouting over the black static of the waves asks what I lost....
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Poetry, Vol. 3.3, Sept. 2009 When I want to jail my inner peace I imagine the sole otiose, white thing...
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Poetry, Vol. 3.3, Sept. 2009 Even the trees are dangerous. Road’s a motherfucker. There’s only one place for times like...
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