Industrialism

The fish swims in
its toxic glow
like some
cat with no teeth
moving to death
just wait.

Virgin Space

the idea is a man
who negotiates his
belongings as he
stands solo
in a park in one of
America's finest cities

a plastic bag dirty with time
becomes a pillow
just before noon

from a
comfortable
space
tie around my neck
the order
is out of order

The Bald Woman

Upon awakening, my face rests in the scent
of your shampooed hair:
Christmas of 1975 sinks in memory.
Mall-walking, Aunt Katie hugs me;
New York is New York.

In Tehran the plane landed.
I was blonde, they were not.
We dodged tanks, middle-eastern
paranoia, climbed mountains, fled
spiteful dark eyes.

The Shah's last home slipped past
our feet as the ice-laden
roads taught cruelty.
Discarded people gangrened in unusual places
grazed for sympathy.

I travel the pathway of your hair.
Your hair lectures me
about white-picket fence dreams, memories
and being snared like an animal
thinking of unborn children,
the ephemeral six o'clock news.

I will rearrange the furniture this afternoon.