Poem #79

Do you ever worry

That you haven’t quite got it?

That your mailman span and

Dropped on cobbles,

Hastening to deliver your memo?

That, come to think of it,

Your memo’s still pocketed

In his neon-orange jacket

(Which he was entombed with, having died on the job)?

Of course.

You can’t RSVP to that

Which was never received.

Perhaps, sooner or later, in due course,

A gravedigger will exhume the



And slip it

Into your expectant claw.

Poem #78

I took                        Too long                        Like gum

good care                 in play                          affixed

at first.                     outside.                         within

I bounced                Each bounce                a palm,

and flipped             pronounced,                congealed,

and then                  the spring                    pulled to

returned                  tore through               the mouth,

the sheath.              tarpaulin,                     taffyesque.

Poem #76

“No, no, there’s nothing left here.”


My arms, I crossed them.

I’d been cheated.

I was ready for spite, salted spite.


“No, no, there’s nothing left here.”


In the chest: deflation.

I’d been stirring the brew into

The early hours, when you might as well

Be a dream.


“No, no, there’s nothing left here.”


I span, saw, and knew it to be true-

There was nothing left here.








Poem #75

Unfurling, a spectral carpet

Or volcano,

Generously stained in butter-smears

And lavender-blueberry

Burgeoning like a seed

Or two,

Their ascent crooked

And multifingered,

Their rich ripe fruit encased within

A volley of needles,

Which send the picker,

Finger lipped, in quest

Of a Doc Leaf.

Ghosts guard the crown;

I saw them as a kid

But did not know them for ghosts

As I do now.