c 2004, 36 pages. Lightly rooted in the restrictions of haiku.
A prose poem in seventeen parts, all grown from genuine "facts."
We pull fat ticks from the dogs, the babies, one another's scalp.
Danger shifs on the radio, my hands accept pleasure from being
tied. Swimming last night until. Do not remember. What it feels
like beneath my feet. In Italy buildings do not have a floor, hotels
do not have a room, and airplanes do not have a row. It was over
the fence and that is why we noticed when it was absent but not
whether it had its faculties. Or was only a muscular contraction.
Some grow back some bury their heads in the garden, as the story
goes, until nightfall.
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