Dimly

Cut Short

(The celestial sobbing

of a year cut short.)

When the world ends,

we will all be high,

laughing at the telenovelas

we have lived.

The fire will clash with ice.

But where it all really

breaks down

is the anticipating

burning in the dumpster.

Like champagne

the old distrust bubbles

out from my upturned tumbler.

Now there is nothing

but trust.

(We all know how it ends.)

Suddenly So Clear

Prickly

I Go That Way

Math and Music

Oval angels

make math difficult

The leaves have turned white.

They know what that means

and don’t want to

talk about it.

On paper,

the universe is as dull as

a towel.

The universe as a theory

reminds me of an

old riverbed.

In practice,

it is a high, drunken girl

looking to get away.

The angels always

keep the music,

numbers just out of reach.

Not Mine

The moon casts a shadow

on my bed.

The cat scratches at the door.

It isn’t mine—

the cat or the door.

Splayed across my bed,

an ancient dream

just vaguely glossy.

A Sort of Shadow

Sang Real

Man Avoiding Death

In the well of his eyes

a songbird drowning,

his last note shaking

the earth like an aftershock

Carrying a cane,

he mocks old age

and then beats him with it.

The various compounds in his

organs like chasms of

darkness sewn up into life.

In his neighborhood

the children shirk their

playful duties

break all the rules of youth

by filing taxes

and reading Schopenhauer.

In the bushes,

a sharpened surprise

awaits him.