Houdini’s Wife
Today I write you from the middle of the bed
watching the sun rise on the wall that’s
opposite our window and
that cat we got,
still thinking he can catch the shadows
of the wind-tossed branches
tangled in the linens
claw and reach with his religious ceaselessness.
Regardless, though, they all remain unmoved;
you knew that.
And you run hot at night,
too close, and I
I cannot sleep
with you so always
always close like this,
too hot. So,
so as not to wake you I lie still,
and stare up at our ceiling,
heavy,
hot,
your sleeping arm across my body.
At two —
You wouldn’t know this, but, each morning,
two, like clockwork, irregardless,
no matter the side I have left him on,
he cries and scratches til I let him out.
On my way back to bed I catch the tide,
thinking itself alone,
stopping to gaze up at the moon.
Love, hat, scarf, glove, and winter sunglasses,
I have cut my hair
the long hair that you fell for,
cut it off.
And I enclose it here.


Even on mud or grasses,

Strain Again

La Plage Sud

All Change

The Nocturnes

Newton’s Cradle

Another Time

How We Know Each Other

Trying To Finish A Sonnet At Le Pain Quotidien

Crossing the Pont du Lac Ha! Ha!

(Running) After Catullus (With a Knife)

So What’s My Super-Objective

Remember Once, When It Was Raining,

The Word Is “Yet”

A Subway Sketch

Wait Up! I’m Hamlet, Too!

It’s Always Something

The Buddha in My Window Box Faces Away

Arranged

Don’t Go
