from A Dearth of Prose
The evenings only worthy of the gods.
Her cards are superfluous to hold and
her tigers have been stamped white with polkas.
This was the prologue down in the thicket
where her dead hands clung instantly to mine:
she held my finger instead of the vine.
I drowned her by the riverbed screaming
where spittle and teeming down carried her
into an ocean of fish her white wings
lost in the heaviness of levity.
O queen, you who are dead are now alive.