Each night
The sliver grows
Like young buck antlers,
Gambolling
Beneath the thunderous claps
Gathering
Over our part
Of the world,
In July.

Four clear bags lay waiting
On the curbside;
The recycling truck
Comes today,
Tuesday.
A For Sale sign is planted
On the lawn;
Mary's gone to stay.

My life has always been about us.
Not a group us,
But the me in us.
The I, me, mine.
Wear my things, I strike out.
I buy duplicate gifts,
Compliment with vacuous airs of envy.
Invitations are scarce. A dollar a stamp.
Then you appeared
To show me the you
In us.

Should poets be like good Romans,
And fall on their pens
When they loose the fight;
Or should we take flight,
To write another day?

She calls me names
You never mouthed;
I hear the unfamiliar, Sorry.
And *** stings my ears.
You called me nothing,
Or anything;
You knew no need
For words of endearment.
Today, you're loudly missed
By the sounds of your vacuous absence,
By the atoms we once crushed
In the melding point of names.
Do you squeeze out terms of entaglement,
Now?
False hope on rising pride,
To hold the darkling years ahead,
To keep him in your bed?

Our Strawberry Moon,
Now waxed in June,
Brings crops to bloom;
Like a balloon:
All gone too soon.

There's a drastic reduction
In the number of Know-it-alls
Since cellphones have decreased
The mounds of *******
We were subject to.