Pisces season/dream

Having been shown –

Alone on a train platform and dressed in a slate blue coat and matching hat, but my hair is bright blonde, and it’s the 40s, and another reality. 

Trains speed through and do not slow. Loud, and windy. Bone shaking. 

He walks up, kisses me and leaves. 

Then he walks up. Kisses me. Leaves. 

Factual departures, spent limerence.

Two men approach me from either side. I leave, walk forward onto a train.

Seated next to the door, it’s clean. Late morning, sparsely occupied. Out the window is pristine, clear blue, verdant grass and mountains, just tall enough for snow caps.

Nobody who knows me is alive, and I know no one any longer.  

Once arrived, in a white cotton crepe short-sleeved dress with small red embroidered flowers at the breast and pockets, red shoes, carrying a picnic basket over a footpath crossing above a creek.

On the other side, I spread a blanket on damp grass, facing the mountains.

An unknown man with broad shoulders shows up in shirtsleeves and a loose tie, reclining on the blanket. I rest my head on his shoulder, stare at the sky. The feeling is forlorn, fathomless isolation.

At night I walk down a wet cobbled street into an old village restaurant with low light, heavy wood. I remove short white gloves and rest them on my bag. It’s lively; conversations, restaurant sounds. I’m seated on a banquette, across from me is an empty chair. Bereaved, bereft. A bowl is set in front of me. 

At a hotel with light coral walls, I sit on the single bed, remove my stockings. A desolation, and terminal void. Turning in, under the covers, under the window, under a moon.

In the morning seated on the bedside, a heavy gun. I shoot myself through the right temple. 

bright tone

in the morning I smothered
her body so the blood
pressure could be taken

stress tremoring
quakes her fading
coat pulsing a shimmer

her fretting there and back
exhalations gone metronomic
the results

oil off asphalt
snow spread runs the soil

I still tell anything left
of her what it means,
I’m running out of notes now

to call her back with


tell me my name now, new words after abrasion, rape, a cursive, ascender, tell me my name

the old a spent sigil, spool emptied, body outlined by buttons, a tree for the bog, sphagnum and histosol

kept for good. tell me my name Jack-in-the-green, a visit and say so, say so my name, anam cara, smearing my sinews, above us white eyes and stitch me to earth, repairing my measures

say so I know, woven and healing.




Today I rested on the open side;

a mirror underneath on red cloth, 

an animal trinket for your found way.

In the southwest corner a pinned picture—

water cranes, a doubling moon,

my renewal of night flowers and laid ribbons, 

no word now. 


Think of how the town Juliet 

was next to Romeo. 

And the citizens thought: 

that is too precious. 

So Romeo became Romeoville,

and Juliet is Joliet. 

Think of how we can’t stand

anything we can feel.


olden instructional films

and the correct order

– for introducing everyone

– opening rolls to butter

– resting your not-in-use knife

– greeting your date’s clothing

– zig zag eating vs. continental

– separate the sediment by pour

– never cover the gun arm

one fine thing for another


I made a storm.
Before that, on the table, the new widower punctured my limbs and ears, drew blood at the third eye. He left me to align and later held my neck and asked me what I saw. I told him, an expanse of tall grasses blowing on a white-cloud clear day, but I was on one side of a short wooden rod fence. An Eastern Bluebird appeared in my left hand and seemingly near death, discombobulated. Suddenly a worm appeared in its beak, and if flew off, revived. I hopped the low fence and began walking through the expanse of grass. My dead dog was with me. It felt futile, just grass forever.
Resigned to it, but then a lion. A massive male lion walking to me, conveying protection, as a familiar. It lead me to a tree I climbed to rest. I picked and ate the tree’s fruit in the shade. Satisfied, it left to hunt, returning with a bloody muzzle. It slept under the tree.
We awoke and kept walking, but just grasslands. The other dog joined us. I tell the lion the dog isn’t food and the lion accepts this, leading us on. There are more of us now, but I wonder if this is just it, forever, the same landscape.
Later, I see a well under a tree. I pull up the rope up. Inside a bucket is midnight blue silk cloth. I lower it again and draw up a silver spoon. I think of my Grandfather. Again, and this time it’s a green frog inside the bucket. I put the items in a hip pouch and lower it once more. A yellow canary or goldfinch rides up on the side of the bucket and flies away.
That night I turn on a show. In it, a woman walks out of the exact house I dreamed that I owned, over a year ago.

Last night I made a storm outside that cracked at the ground and shook the houses like shoulders. Went to bed sweeping at the sky for the breeze to break heat, and rain so I wouldn’t have to water. Weather is not stubborn.

2 versions / drafts


the way to your home
a white pet struck
fur blows the road
cat crossing your yard.

my hand casts a line
sacraments your path
breath gone to seed
nearing your sleep.

a raccoon breaks,
stirring the ground ash
pads my intention—
featherfoil, sanguinary.

all the times I’ve seen you,
and you’ve never seen me.



the way to your home
a white pet struck
fur blows the road
cat crossing your yard.

my hand casts a line
sacraments your path
breath gone to seed
nearing your sleep.

all the times I’ve seen you,
and you’ve never seen me.