H. V. Cramond
Pre-existing condition
we'd go to a hotel bar and I'd have your
olives and you'd have that
hat we can't afford
from Macy's, you know
the one you tried on when
you told me your organs
were binding your metaphor
is seven millimeters
and mine may be
in the toilet
by Saturday
I have more blood now
than a girl can
carry but I can't give it
to you or to anyone
even after our guts
are cleaned
Field Season
often water softens
the heart
before
drowning
more seldom
a squeeze and
out-turned pockets
undone by
pollution
You are nothing, she says to the washing machine.
Shatter offense (a fence) of grain
And you,
my quiet one,
keep a turned back
afraid of the obvious
an unlocked door
a path unobstructed
she nests into fear, sickens
paired cranes click warning
echo buzzing, biting bugs:
your city skin
has grown you soft
and your solitude
permeable
cicada whines and
stuck
sheets
her face
an accordion
press
and release but mostly
press:
behold the human
barometer: leaking
brushed back buzz of
sweat-stuck hair and
(swat)
relief rain
pops pressure and builds
stagnant (swat)
restart
(swat)
how precious is
that which drops
death stripped and thrown
the coolness behind closed
eyes and moving hair
and twigs not yet gathered
to look at the world
full of wonder
requires an ease
unbearable,
to dismantle
the stocks with nakedness,
a sigh
ink stained
pared to the tips
working breed
she reminds her fingers
how to scale
on this tree
on the first day
Vuvuzela
Pretend you know the meaning of words
the world cup is worse than hockey because it doesn't end
and there are those shorts
children do not belong in coffee shops
sometimes we want to talk or not talk
and there are more of them and they should know better
backpacks and a plastic bin
iPod on your arm and sighing
everything on the outside
how burning can end
how time can stop and there is only noise
what are the reasons for
seriously bad music
another sense and another