WEBVTT

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A couple of these poems
have the word sulk in them,

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and sometimes I kind
of play with it.

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I don't know what I
think about this poem,

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but it's sort of strange.

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It's called "The
Little Holy Sulks."

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"In the terrible
late daylight hours,

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when wind reaches every
treed river and dry canyon

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like fingers in a sore
groin, we begin our business.

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Past shiny reflections,
under shoreline willows,

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we push out new breath, shadows
growing from our own feet

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traveling east.

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No use, we say, bees in the
motor of the salmon troller.

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Dusty log truck.

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Long conveyor coming
out of the mine.

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Sorrow hit the child with
his best friend's rock.

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Innocence whispered in a
mirrored girl's cosmetic ear.

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The great pornographer
rises before us

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in the moon, eyes of a dog
in heat, the glowing TV.

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Far into night, we finish,
slip back downhill,

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downstream past used car
lots, homes of young mothers

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up to feed their
children to sleep,

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leaving notes in the
kitchens, cages, patients.

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And the sleeping fathers
we touch with love

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held all the way from the sea.

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Gently, in their rooms with
the day's rolled newspapers,

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we work pages into their
foreheads like clay."

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