so says the straw hat

how simple, the two of us standing there one at each sink, passing the dishes between the silence in the house tucked around like snowfall discovered at night so soft I can hear the needle scratch on the record player how simple, to softly kiss the smile of your lips and the pulse of your neck before bed and later, we will cut your hair out back in the blue-yellow afternoon and the birds will come to make nests of these scattered pieces

At the foot of the stairs all the locusts have fallen dead. In swarms they have come crawling haphazard drunkards out of sidewalk cracks and broken bottles they have come birthed by these southern heated nights, hot sex with the streetlamps glow shuddering jagged and circular and pressing. This pressing heat. And at the foot of the stairs all the locusts have fallen dead in a heap. Pile belly-up dry legs stuck out like broken radio antennas searching for music too far away to feel. In the store, the French music is playing too loudly. The needle skips on scratches. There is dust all the way in her long hair. Nothing to buy, just piles faded piles and all these souls not talking. silently shifting. The too-tall man has no hair. Wears short shorts and mouths "watermelon watermelon watermelon" so somebody will think he knows how to sing-a-long French. The music spins. Every so often the bell at the door will ring. Under the streetlight, in passing, it is hard to say whether the

I am very rusty, so be kind... Pasadena, CA There is a rose hanging low from a bush and when I stop to push the petals to my face a man in a truck yells out the window at me while the dog tries to keep on walking I try to take pictures of the way the rain is filling up the backyard swimming pool but the camera cannot capture a million fat drops exploding. Does no justice to the tottering floods edge. You call me every night on your way home from work and I answer. The house is empty so I do not need to worry about the echoing of my voice down the hall.