Standing in an underground
railway station
built alongside a highway
in the middle of summer
slippy-hot
that falls on you like
a damp blanket
your mother had been
heating in the over
on the lowest
setting to lie over
you when you were
sick

the cars themselves are
no better
the air conditioning
roaring helplessly
against the heat
a tired old man
begging for mercy
his button-down shirt
open to his flabby
man-breasts drenched
in sweat

i fall in love with
colorado in weather like
this

the lovers’ spat
of the little miseries
of winter forgotten
behind us

palmer shouts in my earphones
about relationships and
insanity
and how can
i enjoy this music
when i have never had
my heart broken
i have never had
a heart to break
for one
never opened up
enough to find out
what heartache feels like
for other people
only inchoate longing
for people i cannot
know and never touch

the bright star and
the dubliner both
died virgins
didn’t they

“who needs love when
there’s law and order”

a sheen of sweat
but no discomfort
the sun has set finally
i think about a girl
i used to know
and wonder where
she is and if she
ever thinks of
me.

Walking in the spring rain
without an umbrella
should be avoided
by budding poets.
It leads to writing
little bad poems about
walking in the May rain
without an umbrella.

I write you these lines
as a note of warning.
I saw that glint in you eye
when it began to drizzle
and I was all curled up
with the morning’s crossword
trying to think of the name
of the first president of Turkey.

I dreamed that I died.

chalk boned
carrion
picked over
the feast
long gone

gaping
hollowed windows
persistant
half-opened
mouths
snarled

a sufeit of emptiness

it hovers
the
liquid melted
sun

an alchemy
of rippled heat

evaporation’s reflection

once
a bucolic scene
now
eclipses into stark
barren
godless
stone

burning
glittering
sand
cactus stand
on their knees
at confession

the last water
curling
whisping
into infinitude

wait
wait
wait
dear one

for something

anything

there it is…
it is
the last echo

your heart’s poverty
receiving grace

can you hear it?