You Said You Had Souls for Sale

I’ll take two—one
for tonight’s winding
down those final shafts
of light. One because

the first could crack
open like a skull
against a ladder. Could be stolen
in that half

hour before sunrise. Could just wear
out. An autumn blizzard
could barricade access. Or
it could be

an addiction
to that fearless insanity to look
a stranger in the eye. Do you make
home deliveries?

The Eve

She wears
no mask to honor
those dead—in her own
voice. A preoccupation
with cemeteries may end
tomorrow. Or her identity
will be revealed
by other naked means.

Day 3,042

This fat day,
with its bare branches, precedes no more

ashes for me.
Wipe foreheads, clocks, songs, stairs, smoke
stands, seeds, souls

down. Just for today. Tomorrow I still may
go lean.