Author Archives: Zak

we take
the young bodies
and fling them against
walls, rocks.

a small vessel
made of metal
not quite half full
of wild blueberries.

the plans were
thin and reedy

i don’t tell
my friends
about you.

on my birthday
i was a body
in the woods.

we know
just what to do
and don’t know
what to do.

it started out as
too big a bite.

scrape the bark
from the stalk.

the morning path
is laced with silken threads.

i complain
while washing the dishes.

i am interested
in a significant hat

parked next to me
a yacht
of many millions.

without judgment
the air enters
our lungs.

sure,
it’s dependent
on chemicals.

laziness
isn’t real.

it has to be
perfect.

repetition creeps in
like a plague.

when the glass-fronted stores
were no longer
fronted by glass,
the glass now again sand,
the sand pushed and
shuffled into piles,
the people without homes
made castles on sidewalks.

we’ve forgotten
the complicated details,

it isn’t that it’s
coming apart

to honor your mother
you vacuum
the carpet.
you wipe the surface
clean of debris.

brick by brick by brick.

the glass,
too heavy.

we wake early
with the sun.

it is an honor
to see the sea.