C F Sibley




Climbing Vines. Blueprints for Ship. Insomnia Romance. Stories About Bad Men. Fondness for Chemical Equations. White Walls. Blue Willow. Dresses Used for Lying. Other Dress. Drollness. French Emotions. Couch with Arms of Ash Roses. The “Classics.” Fear of Baldness, Yellow Clothes. Wooden Spoons. Welsh Words for God. Infancy in Sidecar. Velvet Rabbit. Mask for Hanging Over Bed. Names of Herbs. Taxonomies of Selfishness, Crystalware, Women. Hedgerow as Metaphysical Condition. Carnation Hatred. Incomplete Set of Bone China. Methods for Curing Virginity. Vivaldi. Competitive Misery. Recipe for Plums. Regret in General. Impossible Synonyms for Red. Lent. Anemia. The H in Thyme. Mixed Feelings about Horses, Hell. Estrangement Extravagance. Salt. Perpetual Cold in Hands.  Desperate Gardening.




Man with Dirt on the Knees of His Jeans. Man to Clean Dishes with. Men with Ideas about Meaning. Men Who Won't Meet Your Eye. Men with Religion. Men with Televisions. Man Believable from Certain Angles. Slightly Lupine Men. Men to Be Seen with. Full-Time Men. Men with Collections. Brunch Men. Truck Men. Men Who Speak Russian. Men to Lend Books to. Men Who Used to Know You. Political Men. Man in a Band. Man with Misleading Hands. Destiny Men. Deciduous Men. Men to Be Used By. Formal Men. Men Who Call Late at Night. Recurring Men. Kafka Men. Men You Owe. Men to Kiss in the Snow. Sunday Men. Bagel Man. Man Men. Man with Nothing but a Ferrari to His Name. Men to Meet Your Father. Men Not to Fall For. Men too Careful with Book Spines. Men in Mesh Shorts. Men with Sinking Couches. Men for Late Afternoon. Men Who Just Watch You. Man Who Has Seen You. Man Who Is Smarter Than. Men with Claws for Hands. Canadian Men. Men Carrying Children. Men for Picnics. Men in New Zealand. Men Who Read Only Nonfiction. Men Who Asked First. Man with a Bad Idea. Men Who Wanted. Men You Were Wrong About. Drinking Men. Men in Autumn. Men Who Smile with Scythes. Men to Be Carried Down By.




Morning with its ancient floor. Morning in first person. Morning shoring me up. Morning of gilt, lip, something biting, almost ripe. Morning assembled its glass box, played its white films. Morning yoked to your fallow house. Morning thin to the bone, fingers ringing a wet sink. Morning ticking in me. Morning wearing its mercury face. Morning drank only my own lake, bladed the highway up beneath me. Morning the violence hour. Morning, plain as if bleached into being. Morning foraging for light.






I wrote these poems trying to talk about living with my mother as a kid, and the impact it has on my life now. I had tried many times to approach her in lyric, and failed pretty extravagantly. So: I ran away from narrative and grammar and first person, and tried to coax the stuff into lists and objects. I found it worked better that way.