Kill Them in the Morning
I’m trying to find where it says,
If your enemy comes to slay you at night,
kill them in the morning.
A Lover, Rejected, Rejects the Myth That Is Billie Holiday
knows she was an uncommon arroyo who understood
that blue on the quintile is a withering thing;
knows Billie lived in an upended Vermont and was
not unlike a nova or a seed in a scalawag’s belly …
Holding Light
My father took me to the shed
Sunday afternoons to fix piecemeal
wood into frames for selling.
Trash
As a teen in the great north woods, I spent long quiet hours in my hometown library, where I found solace from troubles at home, troubles in school, and troubles in the world. I sat in the big leather chairs and read T.S. Eliot’s The Wasteland. I had no clear understanding of the book, such a foreign, worldly voice, so unlike the talk of local lumberjacks and factory workers.
Misting
is the one thing involving flowers
I’m reasonably good at. Daybreak
finds me in the yard with my hose,
attentive as a bee.
Considering Metal Man (as a Template for World Peace)
He sits in Union Station so that you don’t have to,
Covered in metallic paint, not moving, like applied
Pascal taken one step publicly further.