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





 

 

 









Brian Henry's
most recent book of poetry is Quarantine (Ahsahta, 2006). His fifth book, The Stripping Point, will appear from Counterpath Press in 2007. He lives in Richmond, Virginia.












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