Denis Carney and Essex Hemphill in Brixton
women put the strangest things inside of themselves
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.
Sylvia Plath, from “Edge”
I was satisfied with haiku until I met you,
but now I want a Russian novel,
a 50-page description of you sleeping.