This Is Not a Poem in Which

The next text steals the best

Phrases found in the last,

Delicate white-parched bones,

Or sere grasses hissing,

Closet of beautiful

Clothes of the dead, a sleek

Green stalk, a transparent

Lung, a single hair’s curl—

No, give that last one back.

Now, what to do with this bouquet

Plucked from its container?

Forty-odd years ago,

A dandelion head

Hovered over a stalk

Of a human framework

In some Ivy League halls.

One day, gossip had it,

Press had camped out all night

Outside the residence

Of the dandelion

In anticipation of

A rumored impending

Nobel Prize announcement

That never came, that still

Hasn’t come. The slender

Stalk still holds up the head

Of sparse dandelion,

Who never stopped writing.

They’re her phrases. At least

Give her back the bouquet.

Plausibly Grumpy

Sometimes someone

Will tell someone

Else something like,

I have to live

In the real world.

And then they’ll frown.

What is that real

World, exactly?

It’s most likely

The likely world.

They have to live

In likelihood.

They’re not dreaming

Implausible

Outcomes themselves,

Nor complaining

Likely’s the most

Real world one gets,

Just complaining

Anyone else

Dares to protest.

Of How We Suffer, and How We Are Delighted

And, let’s not forget, of how we inflict
Suffering on each other, and suffer
More for having inflicted suffering,
Even when it gave us the savage joy
In the moment of revenge. Our stories
Reenact that joy over and over,
Since righteous violence is addictive
And with a quick burn that needs refreshing.
Back to the theaters, back to scriptures
For more retellings, for another fix
That will thrill us, then ebb and torment us,
Since our suffering lies in our delights,
In all of them, in our capacity
To be delighted, venom in the bait.

Deep Breath

On the left, the satellite
Subject of too many poems,
Distraction from human crimes,

And on the right, some laughter
Under a great bank of clouds.
Dead ahead, a blinking plane

Against a backdrop of stars.
The body is breaking down,
Which means tonight is tonight—

Tomorrow no satellite,
No laughter, no cloud bank, no
Backdrop of faraway stars—

Either inside of a room
Or finally free of rooms.