Look, let’s be clear: don’t imagine
there is anybody here who enjoys
dribbling poetry. If you think we’re
holding stars on our tongues
that’s your eyes want testing.
If you hear music when we grunt
you haven’t understood exactly
what it is we needed to say.
You might enjoy the ruins
of our grammar, the way we
chew up our nouns to song.
It’s not your hand that’s getting
thinner on the blanket.
Please don’t ask us to speak
the hard words all at once.
there are flowers
on the mirror
and yes, he knows
but if the flowers
is not actually
and this old man
he can see
is his father
and they’ve just been
at a game
all this time
and now it’s over
Last of the good time girls, sure she liked a drink,
knew how to make a party swing, how to
string a guy along until the pivotal moment.
Lipstick fires in her feathers, the smoky
turn of her neck as she came into a room;
who knew where she was going to, and
what’s a girl like that got to do with settling down?
Cincinnati couldn’t hold me, she liked to say
I was never a bird in a gilded cage and
Why the hell shouldn’t youth mate with age?
Remember her as she always intended to be:
out of a sky that once held a billion others
the one who stood out from the crowd.