fox ears

Water-logged

Supraliminal as fox ears
The world squishes
Into a boxing glove

Sweatier than a swamped
Canoe weighted to one
Side, tipping

I lost my favorite
Leather sandal
The left one

Down down to the bottom
Of the jello-y
Lake

BK
April 2016

reply to a question

I love looking at Jacob's profile when he's
really focused on something.
I love the sound of Pella doors opening and
closing.
I love the smell of my father's wood shop and
of my mother sauteing onions garlic and
butter.
I love tiny furniture.
I love looking up.
I love the ferry boat ride to Martha's Vineyard.
I love making lists.
I love taking off my bra at the end of the day.
I love claw-foot bathtubs.
I love the coo of a dove.
I love the grainy look and sound of 8mm film
projectors.
I love Joan Dideon.
I love the old Whitney Museum.
I love being Jewish.
I love fire and water. I love dirt.

BK
March 2016

Daddy Long Legs

(ready about hard-alee!)


You walked SMACK
into my burp smoke

a stripe,
a clip,
a handled cellar door

stern treasure-mapped
to bow's end

sweep the sail
a tiller-edge still

dawn's pink chiffon
levitates billowing.

BK
March 2016

this is not about me

Solipsism

Like a dog

pissing on a fire

hydrant

wanting to believe

in a noble future

version of

self

sucking poor souls

into her giant

baby orbit

of disposable props

heard through fuzzy filters

and a water glass to the wall:

“I am your fucking consequence!”

She never had a punchers

chance at happiness.

BK winter 2016

January poem

Swallowing Clouds

with each shuffle-ball-change

my vessels willed

puffs of cottony steam out of my ears

making the condensation

overhead

throw down rain

petals in between my toes

sweetness sent

three journeying eyelashes

sailing wayward on

Venice canal, knees

to ground keening

in a fetal retreat

kettles loaf & poke

under the rotted ropy hammock

BK Jan 2016

53

December 28, 2015

Now I am 53 (first birthday without my dad)

A picture of you hangs

in my head, doing what

it’s suppose to do. Reminding

me.

A room for a red sweater-

keeping track of

patterned tape,

newspaper clippings

go somewhere

else.

I get interrupted though-

everytime

I get to the best

part. The bone

of the matter. 

91

I Changed My Mind in My Sleep

I would like to make art

instead of making dinner.

I would like to have nicer kitchen

cabinets in my next abode.

I don’t mind winter when it is here

but wonder about that when it is not.

At 91, my father remembered his college

marching song which he cheerily

belted forth with great elan.

I pretended his “I’ll miss you”

was for me but I knew it was not.

I had not earned it.

I had not known how.

BK

2015