a poem can be kinetic:
let it breathe fire
write it down and let the words lift off the page
and swim in your blood

fall asleep with howling ghosts in the hope that when you wake up,
they paint your world

don't be so sloth and slovenly,
mister death-forgives-all
you are the driver and the doer
you crave intelligent action

organized bereavement has taken the title
leave a string of lace behind,
then drop it

the drunken phantom of ultimate reality dawns on your sunrise
watch it slip by,
string that fine wine through the hills
wear it like a diadem when you are done
and you are done
right now
in the middle of winter