Hundreds of orders behind but never
never
never
Never quite
out of business. I cut my finger often
but my carvings are cut, always
must be.
I owe the people wooden hearts
to call their own.
And I owe myself a living,
living with clocks and statues and cabinets
for some purpose
known by God.

Mirrors, paintings
Mirrors, paintings
of me.
Cut fingertips bandaged nicely
Always asked for, always acknowledged,
always gifting the best
each holiday season.
People are so modest, people are so kind,
People created the devil
called Wine.
That's what makes people oh-so
Divine.

A rule of acting:
"Real people lose."
They don't cross everything off the list.
Trophies, good days, and money
require a sacrifice of comfort
somehow already deceased.
It's a slow, steady process.
A long and sometimes plotless movie.
(By the way,
you know who will be talking to themselves
at the end.)

Sea captain who brings with him an air of comfort,
first mate, confetti egg shell,
metal-framed reservoir.
Cradle my head, pull my hand,
Stand.
Solve the equation for me. Don't.
Be my carriage horse. Roam free.
Burn the papers. Lock them away.
Join the feast. Serve us, **** the beast.

Begot, begetter
A stain-glass window, more like a painting
wet with thinner.
Broken calculator, hard-to-getter.
Man the weather--man the ship. Don't, I can do it myself.
Hideous, antique bird-feeder
favoring the magpies above all and doves the least.
Join the feast. Let us leave the little
beast alone, they've done nothing truly bad! because
Just a little cut doesn't hurt.
As long as the blood doesn't spurt.
As long as Sylvia is my dead friend.

As long as you're an indescribable friend,
always there among the bramble
of the old flower field, abandoned long ago.
In the 30s.

Sea captain who brings sun, my
first mate of all singing first mates, of
all operatic dancers.
Dance with me.

I always forget
Just how heavy
Water really is

I have written this day
Which I will call
Last Flowers of Spring