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I Heard Whispers
 For Liz Kendall and Theodore "Ted" Bundy
Listen, Seattle, or Salt Lake City.
I hear the distant whisk and groan of oar-
strokes. The lake shining behind blue placards
of pine trees, like a tear held by the lash
of a mother's eye. The curl of spawning
trout, like icy hands, thrashing in water.
Searching between leaf-litter and falling
cones, the delicate wren frets; its latest
egg eager to be laid, migratory
as desire. The spider re-threading
its net sways in its October home, hung
from the windy branch of a young girl's bones.
Subject Matter
still your one hand floundering
trying to
write your story with the tide
you wouldn't
return to an empty page
the teary shallows whispering
sunset
is nothing --
the sea is done
surf crashing
under a tired frigate
busily
rolling
like a woman into a dress
on a bed where you once were welcomed
Myself in Memoirs
I'm this close
knee to chest
perceptible
visited by angry philosophers
such news embarrasses me
when training
lions
or American lap dogs
or
those boys awed by the rancor of slept-
in beds
however true to my journal:
Eros
then a few sticky peach peelings
and moonlight
on a dreamed-of ceiling
American Gothic
when she lurched for
the phone call
to practice her mouth
Hello
all lipstick
they chose to eat with the boys
fifteen minutes in the kitchen
good pop
good wife
and fuss about Aunt Dot waving
her lank arms
from some anonymous life
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