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Bees kill wasps by gathering around and tightening in the middle.

I could go in for some pie why the hell not, there’s so little time.

Sixty-year-old veins look like giant roots breaking through earth’s skin.

Love speaks in silence, on behalf of lovers too tired for words.

I’m recalling his socks, the inked initials, the splashes of blood.

On a morning in November words appeared at the end of my pen.

Flesh is temporary, memory a tilting barn dismantled nail by nail.

Salt provokes, tenderizes. Your wounds, your dinner.

Think how you move, how a room changes with your smallest breath.

My soul is simple; it doesn’t think. Something strange paces there now.

She commands, under her breath, You must be the son.

A goddess was offended; her altar required my virgin blood.

But too much rain can translate anything to unspeakable.

My lust works like the tides pulling in reverse, controlled by a simple ballast.

The poem I can’t yet write saves itself for when it can’t be avoided.

David Lee

Beyond her ampleness, he stands a small man vanquished.

My mother is queen of buttons. She shows off the prized ones.

A memory in the drip, drip, drip of the kitchen sink that won’t stop.

All right. We are perfect. Tomorrow we will make a million dollars.

I tell my sister what I didn’t tell my father, I love you. Please, don’t die.

I know which home takes the turning, which mind washes in hot water.

I awakened on my belly—my back a raw field from nape to heels.

My mother’s house was packed, painted, put up for sale—sold.

Bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, and fill all fruit with ripeness.

They cut you off, let fall your hammered silver bracelets to the sand.

Now he chuckles with the sea, stitched within its timeless jive.

I love scientists. They’re trying their hardest. And they just want love.