Draft

Writing slips through narrow gaps
In the chinking of the skull
Sending a little shiver

Down the thoughts that sit too close.
You don’t want to seal the skull.
Indoor pollution, radon,

All sorts of problems build up.
You do need the skull to breathe,
But it can get too leaky,

And that’s where writing comes in,
Especially in old skulls
Whose cold thoughts dress in layers.

And the Oncologist Actually Says, This Will Be the Winter of Your Discontent

Waiting for the next good thing,

The next good feeling to kick in.

Outside, a woman weeping

In the hospital hallway,

A man’s voice comforting her,

It’s alright. I’ll be alright.

Why is he comforting her?

Relationships are immune

To context—the roles don’t change,

No matter how solemnly

People speak of reversals.

If he was the comforter,

Then he’s still the comforter,

No matter who is dying.

Sunrise

There’s a flush of pink in the clouds
Below a veiled half-moon. There’s a story

In the news about two teen-aged girls
Who were musicians, killed by a bomb.

There are books of verse and prose
Arguing for various points of view

For suffering people. Like those girls, like
The mothers of those girls, you suppose.

White Flag

Let the pirates take the ship.
There’s no treasure left in it.
Let them board and sink with it.
There’s no getting off of it.

Pirates are the least of it.
They’re more like the final fit,
Final liveliness in it,
This disintegrating rig.

Let them have some fun in it.
Eat what food remains in it,
Smash it up, get drunk as shit.
Then they can go down with it.

In One Sentence

The tendrils of galaxies uncurl
Like the swirls of water in a muddy ditch,
Like the circumstances of your existence.