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BRIAN HENRY |
They’re
Back
saying dirt is bad
beneath the nails
grimed into the skin
the dog hits the same note
all night
begging for the maul
the other dog comes up
short
at the driveway’s lip
goddamn electric fence
speak dog speak
Powerwalker
In the end every thing is loveable.
Every thought a notion, a sinkhole
inching toward a house wrapped
in vinyl
that won’t expand when
exposed. Who’s liable
when the paint slides—a
corpseground for lizards
& worms, a.k.a.
asphalt, a.k.a. roads.
No barrier will save them, or the birds.
Stroke the days when houses were made of bricks
& boards,
of sterner stuff. Who
comes to bury the pocket
of earth removed from the
earth. Who gives the ticket.
A woman elbows past on the sidewalk so white
the sun hurtles off—you
think of a rocket,
of catching her elbows to
guide them beside her head
unless, of course, she prefers
knees instead.
I Wanted To Be Good
but the price was blue
and the house was wet
the couch was cream
the dishes were velvet
the desk was dying
a sweet summer death
the ankle was taped
the barre was hot
the mail was late
the walk was cracked
the meal complete
we wore earrings to bed
Down the Stairs
What splatters here
a weekly instead of
with movement & beam
in tune to & beside
al fresco plot with yawn
your migraine pingpong ball
futon fucking anus
undone by the storm door
all the wood asloping
the destroyed picks itself
last in the line-up
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