The nicest, subtle things-
The tiny flutter of
Just the Right Cold
The Fall of Man.
We study the Holocaust at school.
“The Catastrophe, ”
across this table
quivering light-streaked lines, some straight, some long, all crooked and dazzling against the man-made lake beside us
course through our conversation.
I paint my way in black in white,
as you sleep on into a viscous, lulling night—your hair
crammed neatly between my fingers,
People who have a limited body of information
can be sure about things.
Ten years the largeness of your heart that couldn’t
Quit till it was done defining you,
Delighting us in your
Candid camel faces, your
teeters on the tight rope between denial
</>White-out words in their skins that my
teeth still hold in
spill reckless out over three dreams
of a scene painted in studies,
the sun in galveston.
Glaring back at me, the sun so
white-hot it turns the thick black lenses
The stage slung low and light
so strumming sounds can breed; at night,