locking the door against dangerous// human curiosity and forgetfulness.

A dozen owls at the bar, impolite, eating the cheese and mice. A dozen owls. Eleven of them on stools. The big one with his wings around two others. Bragging, obnoxious. Ah what a fool! Too big to argue with.

The monsters in the sky burst with riotous laughter, their rumbling voices barking out commands, their cracked nails scratching on the screen, their knotted knuckles tap-taping on the window. Little girl, won't you come out to play? She clutches her floral bed sheets,…

I saw the news today, O boy! “Cows Bound for Slaughterhouse Make a Dash for Freedom.” I told my punk rock band Frying Tumors about it, And what do you think they said? “Things are disturbed enough already Without cows getting into the act.”

With the sudden thrust// of April green, we can forget/ our drought continues.

Our lips are barely touching It's a game And you want to play it, and I want to play it Because you like it, and because I like it Our lips can touch, just touch Our lips can touch, but they can't really touch Our lips can touch, just barely touch Our eyes must…

The mystery is in the barmaid's impersonal stare. It's all there. Recognizable the bottles of Bass Ale And Crème de Menthe. Glazed oranges piled in a bowl. Two roses in a small clear glass of water. A wide gold bracelet on her arm, halfway

The torchlight flickers off the stone above,/ the ceiling of this ancient cave the scarred/ have not discovered yet. I write this,