Saturn Return
As you know, the universe is quite large
and our chances of picking out the sound
of any specific singer remain low. Kids
who were once so solicitous no longer pay
any mind. You may suggest we husband
our resentments, but to insist the coup
couldn’t have been predicted extends
an already overlong parley disguised
as a French feminism conference in Boise.
You heard me, gramps. I’m calling you in.
Most nights we ran down to the sea
to redeem our excess joy, while our brokers
smoked a little hash and built worlds
on their phones. The stark order of sex
disagrees with me. I like to stay home
and make up mysteries, like we did that winter
the rain kept changing to snow and back again.
A criminal, or at least criminality
was headed right at us, just as our breaths
melted in moonlight — most like sips of syrup
a few thicker. None sinful, none unloved.
* * * * *
Fragment Found in a Ballot Box
Are we making progress as a community?
Answers may differ, but to call the river
impassable is a cop out, when I’m right here
in front of you with a canoe. Impassive
maybe. That I can see. You cooled on set
when your lines were dull, and we agreed
with a glance we’d suture the days shut
from here on out. Peonies stunk like honey
in the dusk. I set up a tent in the yard
so we’d have a dry place to think. Hold still
a minute, you said, which killed me.
If being alone out in the open haunts
you like it does me, let me recommend
an afternoon sketching a pile of fresh laundry —
dirty works too —and then looking for solace
in someone else’s sketch of something else.