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February 23, 2026
Pride of Place
A turned hem in
the darkness,
under the Dog Star.
I don’t
need to sing
what I hear to the she
likes the dusk
under frost bit, writhing
vines, but to freeze time
with the mirthful
pining underbrush.
Like the man
in the hollow, I bawl
down to the seabed
not to haul that rope
but another, hollow
for dusk, her hatreds
barked at me
like Cerberus.
They sully every
movement: clock hands
and rockets launching,
pendulums, speeding cars,
kites, and leaves and flying fish,
satellites, gales, boats
and trains and sex
and runners and windmills and age
and creed and roller coasters
tracked, swimming, and race, race, rolling,
flying to Seneca Falls, Selma to Montgomery,
Stonewall, and just a moment
longer please in Saint-Domingue.