À Mlle.

Peut-être
Peux-tu remettre
Le coeur à son espace?

Ça ira mieux
Que de le laisser
Nu, parmi une place.

Warrant!
I'll mark thee Winter,
Hast plunged the grass
And ground within a snowy trough

As if a
Bitter nip
Were not enough.

The Snowball in Hell

Why do birds flock
To the tree in the sunlight?
Why does the skylark
Sing in the morning?
What makes all might
To be insufficient?
What turns drizzle
Into pouring?

Why do birds flock to the tree?
Oh Lord, why me?

Creation

in the morning
we become
Creators---
after dreaming inspirations
erupted from the dampest,
insanest
closets of
what might otherwise
be called the
mind

Just Three Ways of Seeing Burning Incense

In a vertical vortex,
Like Yeats's gyre,
The incense respires.


The smoke submits
To unseen currents.
It crumbles,
Disintegrates, and testifies
To grander lies.


The incense-smoke pools
Under the blue arm-lamp
'Til surrounding gas soaks such dust
Into the damp.

Postmodern?

We must abandon reality, really.
Honestly, the word is silly,
"In reality he was actually there,
Actually knowing the truth and proclaiming."

"I think therefore I'm real,"
Skinny as an apple peal,
Or "I think therefore I'm real,"
Boasting and laughing and drinking, I steal.

I'm telling you, now you tell me.
In reality, thinking's free.

On the Use of Words

The brick wall built on the habitable hill
Occluded the sky and the enemy still.
The monument of mortal birth beside,
A place for no one's nomads to reside
And settle. This be but a history lesson.
The challenge is to write from just discretion.