Paris, July 2014

"Safety Locks"

She waits in the trunk so
she doesn't have to watch
the animals
rip him to pieces.

"Peterson, North Dakota"

I'm fifty years old and married
for now; no one will hire
a master.

"My Friend"

When they finally pried him off of me,
he left a hickey
and his legs were still moving.

"Paris"

Where rich husbands take
their wives for collagen, silk,
and temper tantrums.

"Backstroke"

A fly frogswam
in my red and died
on the spoon, but I let
the petal float.

"The Rule"

I forgot my umbrella;
I didn't think I'd be wet.

"Sparkler Dessert"

Tonight is everyone's birthday;
the waiters are pissed.

"Resting Paris Face"

I have never seen a girl
wearing a bow on her head
look so angry.

"Amsterdam"

Women are moving behind glass
the old men tapping
smiles like rotted corn.

"Exile"

Bottles clutter the beach.
I read and record every message.