Love Song
Three birds are still
At the foot of the trail,
So close to the nest.
Everything alive
Is with heat.
Starving
Makes me
Rich,
But it must be self inflicted.
Tobacco,
Fur,
Mirror.
Poetry
The Poem As Lifehack
The Thracian women who dismembered Orpheus in a fit of rage—the original
desperate housewives—did so, Ovid tells us, because Orpheus scorned them. So
bereft at the loss of his beloved Eurydice,
Alas
All the days since the autumn equinox
I’ve been unable
to get the word
alas
out of my mind.
Alas
swirled on maple leaves
burnished by rain.
Alas—too pretty
to be
Vapor of Vapors
I pass by the running river
like a mist moving across the bank
into sunlight.
Vanity of vanities
we all recognize from the King James,
but that’s a rather invasive translation
of
At the Equinox
At the equinox
the advertised balance
falls short:
my egg sweats,
cannot become its axis,
teeters off its pole.
Not the time
for a man’s kito go
on the blink
—or his