THE ANTIDOTE

Why is there no Ex-Lax 

for the constipated heart? 

No syrup of ipecac 

after love’s poison dart?

Sometimes, we've been told,
you need that pump to heave

before the gunk of old
relationships will truly up-and-leave.

It’s either that, or drive up 

at a fast clip and fling

the poor diseased thing 

through the window of a flower shop—

or better still, make it scream
and march until it drops

from the ledge around the top 

of the Hallmark Channel building.

DEVOTIONAL

After meager 

supper and the dousing

of fire: 

the somnolent buzz

of katydids and crickets

chanting their drowsy
vespers from the thickets 

in the evening’s dying embers—

as if to sing 

this doleful meridian

and its citizens, still 

hampered by their 

misbegotten promises  

and heavily 

laden with drips 

of condensation 

from the leaky 

spigot of unfinished business,

more surely tonight
and swifter than ever 

to dreamless
undramatic slumber.

SHADOWBOX

Blue bachelor's 

buttons, it's your 

last chance: I 

will trade you—

you 

may seek exotic 

pleasures, riches, 

and romance;

and I will find 

the treasure 

here in doing 

what I do.

DAILY STEPS

Week 

after week,
the circular path

cut by my
bare feet through
the tall grass,

though narrow
as it needs 

to be, grows deeper 

with largess.

This peculiar 

marriage

of weedy strangeness

to certainty

looks uncouth 

from the macadam 

footpath 

of expedience—

and is death 

to Morning

Pages of course—

but it works
like a champ 

when you’re 

obsessed 

(if not cursed) 

with repetition

and the search for, 

not the best 

solution, but 

the most particular 

and accessible 

plan: never guess

or catch as 

catch can, but

do not just try

harder, either—

try harder to 

resist less.

OBLIGATORY ODE

Praise poems, rhymed 

sonnets, lusty 

paeans filled with flowers—

come midsummer, prime
detritus like this just

proliferates

like clover. But break

out the backhoe;

mow it all down; 

rip it up 

by the roots in 

a huff, if you must—

any move 

as such becomes part

of the dumbshow.

Even your most 

heartless, narrowed 

burn on lazy bees and finches

is the glaze crack 

that clinches an authentic 

grecian urn; it's 

the left eye 

of a blackbird—one of many

raindrops gathered

 
on a red and rusty
barrow—the last line 

before the turn.

CATECHISM

What is death?—

     Not an opportunist,

     but a highly skilled

     and scientifically

     literate terrorist.

     Luckily, life is not
     a nuclear submarine—

     that is,

     it didn’t come

     with any blueprints.

What then, is life?—

     A game
     whose number one rule is

     if you think it’s a game, 

     then in this moment, 

     you’re losing. 

Losing? 

     Catching moments 

     like fish 

     in a translucent lake

     even though you know you'll have 

     to throw them back before you go. 

And this moment?—

     The ongoing affliction
     of not being able to decide

     if you’d rather have
     yesterday back
     or tomorrow.

Yesterday I've heard of, but 

what the hell's tomorrow?—

     Blameless sweet white
     frosting on a birthday cake.

     Each year, under 

     greater threat 

     of caramelization into sorrow

     from the innocuous addition
     of one more slight flame. 

And sorrow? 

     Any time during 

     when you suspect

     there might be an ending 

     to this game.

IMPERFECT OFFERING

          The better the singer’s voice, 

          the harder it is to believe 

          what they’re saying.

               -David Byrne, Stop Making Sense  

Manna is prone 

to mealworms 

or mold; iridescence 

heralds both 

fever and death. 

As any city 

pigeon knows:

freedom’s wings 

may come 

stapled to rats—and 

Eden’s fruit is filled 

with pith—still, 

gutters grant quick

baptismal baths, 

and you do not need 

to sing the beautiful

for the sound you 

make to be the truth.