Sometimes I try to make poetry but mostly I try to earn a living. There's something still living in every urn, I am sure of it. The ash moves around inside the vase like the magnetic filings that make the moustache of Wooly Willy. Maybe a new face counts as reincarnation. The wand says, "I'll be your ostrich, if you'll be my swan." In this life, what did I do wrong? I think my heart is a magnet too. It attracts anything that attracts joy like the summer grasses the swans track through. OMG, how in love I am with joy and with yours—how I know that adding to it would only take it further off course, off its precarious center, so for once, I won't touch it. I will stand wand-length away—let it glide stupidly on its weightless line, without me.
Locked in the beauty of the pearl, far from frail,
these people who claim to love us still
they don’t give up much, do they, sealed? To eradicate class—
the looking glass of it, the complex glare: “Let me introduce
xxx, impoverished poet.” Winter let up
like a terrible religion. In its wake, a politics came,
profane. You were on a train
from Philly to Mass. Winter let up like bands and globes
and globules and I could feel the trade ships
in my bloodstream, the blood that made me,
and I wanted to kill it
really bad like a war path. They said my poems
were a mess. Well, if that’s the case, then, go ahead.
Strike one match and the mansion will go up in its own ash,
in its obsession with accumulation against the glint of trees.