Poems

Do the Dead Wander?

There was a moment, when you entered through

That you knew the ants prattling on the ground

You knew to follow them to the fruit,

Foxes, an eye in the sky boring in,

The ones that eat carcasses like gods

Smelling the perfumed corpse smoke

In the hall of the heavens

But, you wake, dumb as ever

And confused by the chorus of air

And earth, for a moment you’re still the

Unblessed Hand grabbing the sword

You’re relieved, what did it mean?

What the Daisies Said to Sarah

“You have plenty of time,”

the daisies said to Sarah.

“We’ve seen much worse.”

This steeple, tall spires—

romance made gothic

by vines threading through stained glass.

They come in reds, greens, and blues,

squares, ovals, and rectangles.

Once in the morning,

again in the evening.

“You’re gorgeous,”

I told her,

“I fell in love with you

by the reddest roses

in Pompeii.”

They come all in black:

sons, daughters, brothers, sisters,

holding those daisies

If I could have you forever,

I would.

But they would miss her.

Maybe I Made Something, Earth

This place won’t change,

but you’ll see the coast.

You won’t see the sun rise,

but you’ll see it fall—

like it wasn’t selfless glory.

(It’s dying, you know.)

The stars—

they took so long to get here.

Of course, they’re tired.

Maybe I made something, Earth,

out of blood,

out of dandelion,

out of banging my head on the table.

Maybe I made something, Earth.

Made a difference.

Made you laugh.

Made a pen run out of ink.

The Lonely Old Cowboy Said

The lonely old cowboy said,

“You’re too young to be smoking.”

And with great concern,

the colors dripped from his face

and into the night.

I got older and worse.

Belligerent and in pain,

I iced and rounded out the years.

I did quit smoking though.

If Her Head Was a Cup

If her head was a cup,

she would spill it

until it was empty.

Hands steady.

Eyes closed.

Everything poured out—

quiet,

clean.

And in the dark,

something waits to be filled again.

We Stood on Our Toes

We stood on our toes

in the doorway.

The light shone outside,

begging at your feet

like a child.

But a cold woman,

speaking out of turn,

messes it up.

We start all over.

She is wise,

and we should listen—

but who would, ever?