My swing was still tied to
the arm of the
tree when they
put it through the cruncher that
made mulch.

It fell because it
was dead
for a long time, like
dad said
whenever he thought so.

I asked mom if Spot
got scared and
ran away and
she cried
and at night
told me everything dies,
but she was wrong
because I went to sleep
and dreamt he was alive.

For a moment
I thought my cigarette
had somehow set the tree ablaze (it
was actually the light picking out
the last bud red
with never-bloom). I
reached out with
licked finger tips,
foot on one branch arm
hooked around another,
to extinguish her but
didn't hear the
soft sizzle I expected.
I drew my hand back
sticky now with sweat
and a little sap.

I smoked the rest
then threw the **** to the roots below,
listend to it fizzle out
in the snow.

Oh, manifold incomparable dress,
O couvercle covering cowering flesh
Flap and fight and fly, oh
Imitate her soon-to-sigh.
Oh flowers patterned on
Some fabric thin to
The billow breeze, oh
Bumps on her knees.
My hand is well aware, don’t stop,
I love them there.

The scrape of the
Shower curtain’s slide is
Music to my ears.
This old cliché
Comes true when I
Hear the sound sampled in some
New song today. Every
Other up-beat makes
My speakers buzz, I
Spin the dial and
Breathe static.

k

I’m frightened, and foolish,
And awful, and vain,
And nonsense, and not
Nearly enough to get by,
And I’m hoping
That nobody notices.

It springs from teachers giving
Out compliments like
Communion crackers at a
Vegas church,
Gold-starred papers with
Smiley face stickers and
No trace of
Criticism beyond “work on
Punctuation.”

It’s absurd.
For years we’re treated like
Endangered worms,
Told that we’re special but
Kept in closed boxes,
Eventually, spun into
Thick grey silk, stitched into the cloth
Wherever it’s wearing.