grouse
poetry is a vain pursuit, i know
one big “you had to be there” moment
even worse is trying to explain it
a corpse, doused in cheap perfume
poetry is a vain pursuit, i know
one big “you had to be there” moment
even worse is trying to explain it
a corpse, doused in cheap perfume
an idling van, chattering wayward bicycles
jasmine mingles with fresh manure
a lone blue light atop a single gatepost
the only wind, this fart
chinese elms. i never noticed them here before
peeling bark, and green green leaves.
remember the pond? those fragile, twisting branches
that engulfed the house in shade?
rolling rain-soaked hills, beyond the richmond
bridge, (arch the back to swoop
and gently, upright, land) to land in, loved
and loving, erased by a car-horn
the tulip i cut last week’s still round and fragrant
and frilly in it’s doubleness, but
the rose-branch resents the lack of sun, and holds
it’s buds shut, like two fists