The Sadness of Morning Glories Out of Season
Why do their wilted vines still cling to walls,
to porch supports, to trellises? So dry
and desiccated, it seems that they should fall
back in the dirt. The seasons slide on by,
Sonnets
Aubade For One Dismayed
Half-Alice in her milky, silky sheets
almost awake to the ache of another day
rebounding from her beaming ceiling,
grieved leaving the comforts of the night—
The Ghost of Frank O’Hara
The ghost of Frank O’Hara taps me on / the shoulder whispering / and what about …
The Heart, Like A Bocce Ball
The jack sits low in the grass. We’re dead drunk,
cannonballing across the lawn, gouging
handful divots, each of us still nursing
a tumbler of scotch brought home from the wake.