He walked into the rain or he would have

had it been raining if only the wind

hadn’t blown him off course just a little

shift in intonation to subjunctive

now it’s a choice not an exhortation

if it would rain the wet slap of his shoes

having to dry his socks later having

no dry socks to change into it becomes

a story that must be told in all its

particulars e.g. wet splotch of foot

on floor having rained if it rains will rain

when it rains her eyes as she watches will

make gray weather he peeled off one sock then

remembered the way it plopped when it fell

This is not how I’m going to die he says

to himself as he bends to pick up the

paper from the floor where it lay under

the couch he remembers ocean the way

his skin felt flapping his arms as he ran

into and out of the water this is

not how I die but the floor’s coming up

to meet my face there is a woman he

can just see her face rise beside buildings

a city where they’d first met a park in

which they set a baby down on the grass

why is baby crying? but this is not

can’t be funny how the carpet where it meets

the sky whispers off into pure distance

The praying mantis on the steps of the

library the little boy stops to tell

his secrets which he whispers while bending

gently down his eyes watching for anyone

suspicious who might interrupt or try

to squash the praying mantis which he feels

is a saint or an angel that god made

specifically to receive what he

has to say about the weird shadow

in the corner of his room that may or

may not be aiming to kill him each night

in his sleep the shape of the mantis is

perfect he says for listening without

moving and for keeping his secrets safe

with some lines from Dale Smith

A disappointment curves up my spine.

Stark images of shattered house lit from

within. We can’t will our way to its

happening, dangling from loose chink on a

keychain, hovering in the aftermath

of wild human, warm, rocky like sand at

low tide pockmarked by tracks. Where were you

when I called? Surely flipping one thing to

the next, a loud decisive hoot to mark

the moment. I had the bright idea to let

my head shatter in perfect symmetrical

starbursts, my fingers spread out at my sides.

Even the nighttime is hushed commodities

awaiting new uses, the way we make love.

Is it possible for a snail crossing the path

to have eros? Tragedy perhaps

in the anticipation it might get crushed

under the wheel of a bike ridden by

an oblivious teen but the idea

that the snail is on its way to some erotic

assignation is preposterous

though it need not be a tryst eros

can operate independently in the

merest glance or in this case the soft slime

left behind the aroma the cosmic heft

of that in the big scheme of things

bringing to mind the cravings of a woman

reaching to feel the kick of an unborn child

when a man glances up at himself

in the mirror and catches a glimpse

of how others see him having put on a few

heavy around the eyes or when a man

sees the woman he loves and resents

having to stand up and walk over

to satisfy an urge or meet a request

why do we do this to ourselves

shyness has to be coaxed out of

the skin cuts itself in the act of knowing

the child caught in the gaze of the man

who in turn sees himself

showing up at the party uninvited

and making an ass of himself but

unapologetic and having a wonderful time