from the archives, 2009

A Lois Lane

Um,  breaths of her

As I am

Here

Sounds reach through the smoke

A leaf in a blanket,  feather-ly like

Cushing succumbing and returning

the whisper of breast above the desk

the ripple of odor of scent

here, the voice of mosquitoes pick  and the gutter at both ends burns

slip in the sand of a cold one, smoke of some shredded dollars.

now, on a float in a pool, so to speak

(while the wife and kids are at the pool, actually)

Bites flesh, pursed lips

Yes, breaths

Any airy passage between

The cashmere of her

You cannot catch your breath near

What was once malva or graminicee

 now reduced

simply to the first third grade thought: Her

oxygen

The warmth of her

Chair-

pressing.