You are my shining star

What comes from far away goes also.
The residue of glitter-blood on the deck
as domesticity fought to reassert itself.

You are alien and I am preoccupied.
You were here and left and came from afar.
And I came from afar and go too distantly.

I am Ellen Ripley and you are my shining star.

the Art of the Unfortunate

What is left over in the practice of the Art of the Unfortunate?
The gorgeous and nearly imperceptible vein in the marble.
Honestly, nothing has so suggested itself to me in any or so
subtle a way, or weighed in on it even so clearly as David, stuck
between boyhood and the age of majority in stone.

Lithely

Cars are driving in every direction
and back in on themselves.
The tenuous concrete pylons
that hold up these overpasses,
the queer marriage of granite
limestone, iron that outclasses
the natural stone, the grasses
on all sides and in crevices, however
scrub, that grow still. That decant
still from their liquid forebears
and thin the way the moving looks.

And the self is a thing projected
in a sweatshirt. The zipper made
from metal too that holds both sides
together hangs as languidly
as if connected. As ingratiating
moving things on roads or us too.