poetry

From the prow of my hip, I see middle age rise like a strange coast on the horizon, close enough now that I can count the rivers,

If the body is a temple, I’ve spent my life profaning, damning the brain’s flawed wiring

Some days I practice disobedience and call it breathing.

In Bangla, language, ভাষা (bhasha), and home, বাসা (basha), could be homophones, except ভ (bha) descends like droplets of monsoon rains and ব (ba) bursts like a prickly jackfruit.

Can you feed yourself with the white space / of an errant sonnet?

Nothing breaks

No lines or curves to mimic the alphabet of the body. Her hand here, then gone left a nameless eye

We were, I thought, as Karl Barthsaid about Mozart’s music, drawing weight and significancefrom the yes at our center that overpowered and contained a no.A bow rubbed against an ancient string. Thunder caught between atmosphereand earth, windows struck by heaven’s…

Hit and Run Lover Met him at the low bar of the evening mesitting there nursing another rum & detachmentwhen in he slips through the thinnest crackin the door like an unpaid gas bill that tells youyou got two more…

This time, when your mother returns from the hospital,she isn’t volatile, but her eyes are black and the pills that stop her hands from shakingmake her docile, not gregarious, a word you heard in school and think describes her best.You’re…

Fridays, I drove Route 119 at sunset toward your old home, turning off at the potholed road to clatter through meadows dotted with cows and cornflowers,