Sunday, October 15, 2017

Of Troy.

Autumn has so much moss coy old in it--

The cool tracks tick with the tine numbings and
Cog stumps
Of the active parts.
But now they've been worn dull-- they're entirely too slight--they're smooth.

They're useless.

When the streets do detect something decisive, as they were engineered to
Do, they no longer click as
They should. Instead they're proprietarily useless
And dangerously sure.

The bell, too, sits astride a bronze saddle--
A retired cowboy with a bad heart, and a
Deactivated fuse.

But it's all good. The orange leap alerts as it
Protrudes.  A/C and
Box fans are all unplugged now--
As black clouds huddle over this hilltop


Those, now that all is summoned to the
Quietude, are bones breaking, Helen.

Tuesday, October 3, 2017


I painted the walls with my mistakes,
Because when the sun rose it did so in the color of my mistakes.

The ray tore the yard, and the tree bled poison
--while the robin skipped the song.

Spring extended the frost because the line to see the frozen bodies
circled the block.

In the mirror I waited for evening to fall,
For, I don't know, a shadow or a shape,
An itchy rag to wear, a lovely loop,
A swing.

The sun fell and everybody's clothes appeared to match.

But my eyes were undiscovered planets.