Poetry

On the patio. Iron chairs. Friend of mine whistling to a bird. Crow flopping over. Magnolia once sapling. Perfectionist neighbor. Sky empty of airplanes. Clouds in sky. Strange moon. If two moons. Waves

To water it past thirst, so tiny pools float on the surface. Fight off ants that are tearing up the yard. Pinch the child with the magnifying glass. Lay in it in the

Now as at all times I can see in the mind’s eye, In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones Appear and disappear in the blue depths of the sky With

Ram my knees with your red plastic cart full of cheap plastic shit and I’ll tell us both of the savior of all human hearts who would rather I didn’t say

“Poetry makes nothing happen,” Auden flatly declares in “In Memory of W. B. Yeats [https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/memory-w-b-yeats],” yet Auden goes on to suggest that poetry is nevertheless “a way