Friday, November 16, 2012

Some Morning

It’s this leaky boat, these hundred horses in my herd, this bag of corpse knuckles. They keep taking me up and down the line and the ocean writes Thursday. The trade is the grown message infects everything. I am supposed to produce children now, with vigor, and instead only stanzas say. Strophes with faces and lasting hand impressions like my hands she once adored and held. I have broken bones on myself and on boards, karate boards, in early articulations of cracking up. Red morning sky and that red hair and haunting glance all briefly see and look away. I am at my sink thinking of my happiness.

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