New England Review2002Rain drenches the patio stones.
All night was spent waitingfor an earthquake, and insteadwater stains sand with its pink foam.
Yesterday's steps fill in with gray crabs.Baritone of a fog horn. A misty lightwarns tankers, which block the greenafter-sunset flash. My lover's voice callsto others in his restless sleep.The venetian blinds slice streetlights,light coils around my waist and my lover's neck,dividing him into hundredths.Would these fractions make me happier?My hands twist into a crocodile.My index finger the tooth that bitesGauguin's Tahiti. My thumb is the head featherof a California quail crying
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