NOCTURNE WOMAN

...my black     Pleasure is named too explicit for a page, but this menace I put in it is not.

    ...he was beautiful in that pasture of thirty-three cows and we                drank        milk in the blaring heat and ate the cake you’d made. We                were        the only humans there—unholy-seeming things with two                legs, dismal histories—

Important poem 

I am nine. We are bored and Karen is dying.

https://www.instagram.com/fearbear/

Strange love for the living, strange love for the dead

Patient, plodding, a green skin growing over whatever winter did to us

Take it easy, Sadness. Settle down. You asked for evening. Now, it’s come. It’s here.

To be attached to things is illusion, yet I’m attached to things.

Living, perhaps our best model for poetry, implies an ongoing attention and engagement with the world... Humor and joy and contentment: these are perhaps the hardest emotions and sensations through and about which to write, at least for me. They risk light verse, and they risk the reader’s thirst beyond a shallow pool. I shake in my kicks every time I start thinking about writing anything with a happy ending or the step before it—of blowing my mad horn on a penultimate note you know will, but hasn’t yet, slid into the root note of the base chord. I don’t do nice and neat, and I’m inarticulate about love, and all my joy is cut with water.