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I made sane to a morning by sleeping all day, and gently
the red sunset bathed me.
I made voice lick up vicious by dancing to noise, but I found
venom squirts audibly.
I made meek to a grand one by joining my lips, and often
I have grieved the same since.
I made face in a pulpit by knowing the score, but always
the brown pews were barren.
I made love to a wizard by storming his eyes, and for that
he said he was sorry.
I made numb to an ardor by lifting it high, but discerned
then the comely macabre.
I made queen for a torn rag doll by letting go, and sometimes
I wonder where it went…
but don’t ask me.
I’m no expert.
The wounds in my palms are still healing.
Originally published in Shelterbelt
Volume VIII 1995/1996
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I tasted like vanilla
when you were
not hungry
did you know
ravenous old men die
reaching into their
memories
for a morsel of what
they let spoil
Originally published in Shelterbelt
Volume VIII 1995/1996
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I was frozen
watching them
slowly take my place
as they held your hand
for dear life.
Your head was reclined
to one side
and I thought you were
trying to tell me
something—
but they wouldn’t let me ask
and they wouldn’t let me stay
with you.
And when
they removed your body
from the dented aluminum heap,
all I could think was
—that was a new suit.
Originally published in Shelterbelt
Volume VIII 1995/1996
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