Shush of Corn Broom

It’s hard to find someone,
Only to realize
You’ve already lost them—

It’s not so bad with those
Who died young long ago.
You might wistfully wish

They’d left more to read,
But they left what they left.
It’s that one that you find

That only just died young,
That you find that you like,
That hurts, somehow. That hurts,

And you don’t know quite why,
So you write it out, but
Now you can see how much

What you just wrote falls short
Of what you liked they wrote,
And that only hurts more.

Old Dog Bed

One part aches
So you move
It a bit

And it’s bliss
For a bit
Then it aches

And you move
It a bit
And it’s bliss

Fatologie

Search for it, and you’ll find
A great deal about fat
And not much about Fate,

Not in English corners
Of the sprawling world mind.
Good. Bodies still rule mind,

Furious Gulliver
Whose life depends on them.
A million little threads

About fat, about shame,
Exercise, diet, love,
Playlists of songs by fat

Singers and bands. Nothing
For several pages
About roles life exacts

Or Providence, except
Perhaps as Providence
Pertains to being fat.

Dimensionless Contentments

You all are such loose, baggy monsters,
Albeit undersized, short-lived ones,

Each of you small collections, about
The scope, duration, and dimensions

Of last night’s last sharp wake-you-up dream,
Each a handful of moments content,

Each composed on directions from Poe,
As if his only directions were

Anything that could be kept in mind
Together. Nothing happens in you,

And nothing much chirps all around you.
You were on the road. You were swimming.

You were in the ghost courtyard of winds.
You were wayside. You were staring out

One streaked window of a rented house,
Rain-streaked windows of a battered car.

You got out. You walked a little while,
As far as you could, up the bright road.

Burnt In

Not bleak, not dyed, not tint,
Liquid made by burning,
Imperial, caustic,

Signed under penalty
Of death, this inky cloak.
And what does it mean now?

It indicates nothing
Anymore, neither mark
Nor stain. Indication

Has been given over
To other contrasts, lights,
Electricity, screens.

Still, the idea of it,
Like all ideas, requires
Some kind of metaphor,

Some effortful meaning
At the edge of the woods
After fire, trees in ink.

Then No More

You only get one for yourself.
One. Everyone only gets one.

You can watch. You can read about.
You can be aware of thousands

In an hour. Millions in a year.
You can see a hundred onscreen.

One. You get one. Of all the ways
You know of. All the times you dream.

All your contemplations of which
Are the worst and the best. You get

One. It’s not the statistic part
Of being just a statistic

That really bothers anyone.
It’s that article, singular,

Not even definite. That’s you,
Friend, no matter who. You get one.

The Free and the Home

Americans have reinvented

Their flag as a chip on the shoulder,

Waving it as a dare—knock it off.

Flags are all a little bit like that,

Rallying us and taunting not-us,

Rallying us by taunting not-us.

Whenever people want to suggest

Amity, peaceful competition,

There’s a pavilion or hall of flags,

One each from every contributor,

As good as singing, We’re not killing

Each other. Today, we’re just playing.

Lack of variety’s a red flag,

Or variety around one theme.

Watch out for symbols, especially.

Why are we reminding you of this?

You know flags. You’ve waved a few yourself.

You know which ones are inimical

To your teams, to your point of view. You.

There was a child frightened by the dogs

At the park, who practiced self-soothing

By murmuring to himself the names

Of each of the breeds he recognized,

Which ones were bitey, which were jumpy,

Which ones only barked. His litany

Was the best way he had to be brave.

There was no one else he meant to save.