CHRISTINE HAMM

Editor back-issues, poetry

To Greenpoint

July insects buzz the sidewalk.
It’s twenty minutes of rectangular and bleak to anywhere.

See the cracks,
the lines crisscrossing
the telephone poles, the concrete
and your hand,
this street disappears into empties —
beer cans and sky.

You’re walking through airless shadows.
Your shoes don’t make a sound.
And we have no idea where we’re going.

Empty Bed

The muscles of my tongue cup him.

Broken backed chairs lean forward expectantly
and the rug curls in anticipation.
No one can close their eyes but him.

Then moonlight does what moonlight does,

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