An underwater mountain range
runs through the Atlantic like a scar
on my yard-sale topographical map.
I read in an article that the sea floor is spreading
where these two tectonic plates crack apart.
Crags of molten rock surge upward
in the impermeable darkness,
the continents on either side grinding further away
from one another every century.

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“Destruction is also creation.” -Marcel Duchamp

i didn’t like
gin      until
i tasted      it
on your       lips
when i          kissed    you after
everything was         fucked    (i tried to
forget      your first name and      his first name
and his        warm body           around          mine
when we fell         asleep          accidentally) and

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Nabokov’s Women: A Sonnet Cycle

I. Lydia

You rose, departing in the dying light
to traces of my manufactured woe.
I watched until your car dissolved, aglow,
evaporating into stagnant night
and into mountains winding to great heights.
Because you left me, how was I to know
the proper way to wait for you below?
Now steeped in gloom, I longed for something bright.

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In the Empty Parking Lot

You are slouched in my passenger seat,
moonlight softening your clenched jaw.
The vein in your temple flutters,
and I imagine that, beneath your skin,
there are roots and coils that sing
in an alloyed language of confusion and melody,

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Annals of the Blue Period

“Pensar del muerto de Casagemas me hace pintar en azul.” –Pablo Picasso

When he thinks of Carlos in Barcelona, July’s blood
rushing through his open veins and his laughter
thudding against the sun-dried brick,
all things glowing beneath the sun
seem to him miraculous.
When he thinks of Carlos in Paris,
he tries to forget the sound of a bullet through his temple.

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