of love. They write
poems of war, of beautiful
woman you’ve not seen
before.

They write poems
of mountains, lakes
and streams, of birds
and books and trees.

They write poems
of death and life –
poems to put you to sleep
and keep you up at night.

They write poems
at their desk,
in the blackness of
their closet, on their hands
or a napkin. Something happens –

and so they write

drip
as a leak in
heaven’s sky
not a leaf born
is dry

Rainy days
are cold
cold as holding
an old woman’s hand
with her bones jetting out
as a mountain

Rainy days
are sad
the puddles frown
as they’re stepped on
by the children

I’m a rainy day

when a woman stands alone. She’s
no rock, just the locks of hair
she cuts from his head. He’s twisted
his ankle. She’s twisted her

head to see behind her. She can’t
hold it. It snaps back to the front,
as an elastic flung at lunch at
a skinny kid in a schoolhouse

for the dead. Her “friends”
lips curl as her hair. They’re slippery
as a banana peel. She learns this
more than English or arithmetic. But it’ll

take years. And it doesn’t land her
a degree. She falls into the leaves –
heavy as a stone.

greyer than the day
than the clouds that hung
like dung
on a horse
that cannot run

greyer than his hair
what’s left of it
up there
even greyer than the news
and that’s grey as
donkey’s hooves

in every direction. Picking up
debris, circling as the bees. And
dropped off like a kid
at school. The doors close

behind her. She looks out
the window. Sees things flying by her –
not the blue Jay or the Robin. Not the
leaves. It’s not autumn. Just dust and

particles. An old article she read
as the sky turned red, as this city
burned. Once her heart yearned to
break out the doors. But the bell

doesn’t ring. Life’s billowing
smoke that dissipates
in the air. She can smell it, but can’t
see it. The fires not lit in her

chimney. It stands cold as the slabs
of stone. She hears the wind wrestling
as she buries herself in the blankets. Life’s
a famine/not a banquet. The wind howls

the fitful night as a rat a tat
tat on the pane. Another day
down the drain.

do you have? I have
one. Do you wear
yours on the front
or the back? When you’re

done do you switch
off? Are there ones
in your closet? Does it
get confusing, all the masks

you’re using? Are there ones
you keep shiny, while others
rust? You’ll go to your grave
covered in dust. And when you do

you’ll be stripped of the faces,
all of them! We’ll be alike, you and I –
skeletons!

as the *** of spaghetti
I left on the stove. Empty as
the pockets in my overcoat. Empty
as a wheelbarrow full of rain. It’s

a swimming hole for
the crows. It hasn’t seen much
grain. Empty as the Styrofoam cup
after the man used up his last

coins on the gin. Empty as
the bottle as he drains it, growing
thin. Empty as all the promises
I’ve ever made. Empty as a carton of
lemonade on a hot day.