in this room lit only by far off planets
bleak as a poorly attended meeting
now imagine a poem, and nurture it
while downstairs the vendors cry
downstairs the baby cries and
downstairs the mother cries too
flies sibilate happiness
or staticky radio messages
my body is out on the street
bright as light bulbs, falling
inwards, charred on a log fire
an eternal series, persistent
as the flash of television's reality
chronicling tiny, enduring details
food for the gods though not fit for them
speckled skies, four kinds of dogfights
_
Spirit of Scoutie
We picked this spot for Scout's memorial because of the way he'd always come bounding up to greet me around that bend. And while I d...
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