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.
verbena
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?
Furl
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.
