My socks are small trash bags, / and the street number of my house is zero. / Garbage cans are my walls on winter nights.

These sheep have no choice either / though even in summer / they still want to hear the truth

No one understands the traffic jams in this city, / how they just spring from the ground like this / and why, when you reach the head of the line, there is / no accident

The odor of stale hotdogs coils / around this truck stop of quiet men / who sit with faces bowed, bath kits / in laps, fair-like tickets in hand.

Prism vase, asters blue as glacier ice, / baskets of strawberries, croissants, / goblets lit with orange juice, / & the cathedral distant, the boat house / flying its flag in an international zone

Then there he is again— / the Suit of Lights, all / epaulets and reluctant pink and gold, / back in the ring.

The chrome-colored clouds / pushed the heat down, held in the car fumes, / the smell of the asphalt. Out on the patio, / I was ready for work

There is something about traveling home that stops the blood. / My womb becomes a howling dog warning me of danger.

Here, there, the way silence / tows you below the waterline / and though you are alone / you’re not sure where her name / is floating on the surface / or what’s left

She hasn’t taken off her swimsuit all summer. She is two hands / across her middle. I know that from throwing her: one foot / on my thigh, the other in my palm. Up, over, splash.