The empty glove holding the other empty glove is patience and hunger.

&nbsp;

The gloves are green and probably leather.

&nbsp;

My mother wore gloves when I was a child and she was driving.

&nbsp;

Slim gloves.

&nbsp;

Only in winter.

&nbsp;

Around her thumbnail her skin would flake.

&nbsp;

How beautiful her flaking skin thought the child also satisfied by the shape of her nails in general, medium-narrow and medium-long.

&nbsp;

They weren’t real driving gloves, and they were actually red.

&nbsp;

Green driving gloves appeared in a recent email advertisement; I wanted them for myself.

&nbsp;

Ten fingers for ten very special purchases.

&nbsp;

Bonus neck massage and bildungsroman.

&nbsp;

Fit them inside a mitten like coins fit in a mitten when you don’t want to differentiate.

&nbsp;

Please let’s not go to Staten Island tonight, it’s too late for that kind of thing.

Future Plans

Author_SmallLeftAlignedTitle

###### SUBMITTABLE LOGIN

Didn’t expect to see him there 
even though the crowd was so him so 
middle aged and white, 
between the balds another bald. 
His glasses blinked and saw me. 

The band had finished and in my left hand 
arrived the neck of the blue and white guitar 
special and sweaty and slipping down 

Here, I held it out, I gave it to him, it’d been 
so long since we’d talked 

Now it was sweaty in his hands. 
We talked about that and other things. 

He said the moon disc is surprised by your caprice. 

And I said but some songs get sucked back to the left margin. 

And he said yeah, tidal forces.
 

Then I said you compel my attention more than the blackbird, more than the air.

&nbsp;

Which prompted him to say you carry certain ideas like a canoe across your shoulders, or wait, two canoes that are perpendicular.

&nbsp;

And I said yeah, and where’s the lake.

&nbsp;

He said just words herded by sheep dogs who tomorrow will sleep tomorrow.

&nbsp;

And I said what I wonder about, what I really wonder about is where all those flecks of fingernail polish land, like what kind of map.

&nbsp;

He said isn't it strange the professionalization of poetry in our modern times.

&nbsp;

I said I mean the New Yorker and you’ve made it.

&nbsp;

He said zoom out just a little bit, is any of it still a poem, zoom out and how can getting a poem in the New Yorker mean anything.

&nbsp;

I said you’re making me want to send this to the New Yorker.

&nbsp;

He said I think you should. I said to, you know, just send it to the New Yorker just to have said hello to the New Yorker in a poem in just such a way.

 
And so I did. 

And then my friend and I fucked 
and he was nice afterwards full of 
compliments about my pussy and my poem 
which was a surprise because I’d taken a look 
recently and it was not what I thought since 
it had been a while and I’d never made 
a habit of it back then but now I know 
and I’m glad my friend was nice.

R

E

C

L

I

N

E

R

>

[MENU]