Pitterpatter

Oh my pitterpatter friend Grief
you little baby bother, with your iddybiddy
feet, you live inside each of my
brothers, give us all a papery leaf
from your book and take our mothers from
our fathers, make stewing cauldrons of the
meek, lifting love out of our
lovers. Grief

you useless eunuch

I could mistake you for no
other.

Passing the Treasury

3 men run by me
Proper men, men
with maths and
cars, and careers
and stocks, men
with mechanics and
wives and an idea
of how locks work

these men have
taken a break from
work for an 0 H and S
sponsored relief
from R S I
sweat, real man
sweat, running down
their shiny heads
dripping into their
Oakley-glassered eyes

and one of them breaks
off, jogging toward the
office to the rhythm of
friendly goodbyes

“Bye Frank!”, “Seeya Frank!”

imagine if I were one of those math-car-career-man-Frank-goodbying
guys

Untitled #10

There are mornings when I wake up and the curtain is drawn in such a way that I can just see a small square of sky. The buildings huddled like bumbling titans around my apartment are eliminated from view, and for all I know they could have been eliminated, fantastically, in the night. All I have to do to go with this notion is believe it; feel it drum through me, the thrill of being the last one alive after the apocalypse. On these mornings when I’ve got this view of the bare sky just right I am careful to move very little. I lie as still as I can and I focus, focus, focus on that patch and let the remnants of the dream state guide me to some possible answers for where I ‘am’. The trams become sighing vessels on a vast sea, moaning through the ocean like great whales in search of food or company. Yes, I am in the middle of the sea. My apartment is lost at sea and the sea is licking up its concrete walls like an ancient beast.

Pagent

these lilies blow through the room

throw their bodies

upward

arms

lifted

gymnasts

joined

by

joy