Pricked by Blue Flowers

Wears out
a pen is
a good sign
was something
she wrote
in a journal
30 years ago
to dig herself
out is still
a message
she can use
to get
your attention
off those dreams
onto hers.

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?


Still unsettled hot asphalt
footprints track onto the sidewalk. Haunted

house promotions begin
in August. She looks for verbena along the wrong

boulevard. Tree lawns
for the weary of new

words. One bruise refuses
to blossom, another won’t

fade away. A Friday afternoon—it’s not too late
to retrace her steps. Jazz

trombonist turned portrait photographer—he’s still
the rapist to her.