it's all that I can do and I wouldn't want to let you be

The Hand
-- by Michael Burkard

No one knows the honest
end or beginning -- no one
know the important details
-- living like this causes
one like her to fold her
hand early, no bluffing
left, and only distracted
ideas as to what's out there.

Harlem
-- by Michael Burkard

Two copies of Denis Johnson's
Jesus' Son, write song instead.
The way the woman has her hand
up to the back of her head and
what with me without my glasses
her gloves look like they could
be brief eyes. The man with her
doesn't want to write, I assume,
but maybe he would read one of
these if I walk up in a non-
worrisome way tell myself to be
a lyric or a phrase or a brain
and bring my hand up as in a dream
ends do. Sea-light is my vacant
lot among these evening buildings.
Everyone to do. Love you are like
a mile in the day-sky which has
just shut down. Love I bring home
one book to you from a blue car
from somewhere.