Poem for the Man
You say grief is good but have no
evidence. The clock flashes into
its fourth day, no one here can stop it.
The table setting on the floor,
the hand weights on the table.
Peanut shells on the floor,
the child between floor and table.
Always between floor and table
but in constant motion — more blur
than back and forth. The two leaves
she put in my hair have been joined
by a third. Things stop there
though the door opening onto a lake
opens too often. The lake white
with black strips, its name in cursive
angled up-center. I have kept my penis
out of this until now: it just doesn’t fit.
The poem or the occasion.
Dead Aesthetic
Already part gravel
the frog in the tire track
another weed to pull
Jesus/Stick
Disease unsavory in the first-person.
I am so impolite.
Discard me like the bump I am.
Chalk my body there on the street.
Maybe a pair will rut in my outline.
Maybe someone will sleep there.
My form at last useful at last.
Do not mention the rain.
Call the forensics artist a god.
Check his watch for the time of death.
Watch the rain cleanse for good.