Saturday, June 12, 2004

When you say
"I'm sick"
do you mean
"Stop calling"?

And how does the glass
find itself at the lips
of a warm spring well?

Thursday, June 10, 2004

Me, Myself and No Irony
(first Gloucester poem)

The horns of everday
tear the air
like paper

One foot begets only
...another rhymed fine

I am not so tall these days.
The tops of the highest
pines are now

beyond vision. The
oil wells no longer
remind me of

small children.
In two hours the
sun will break, but

I will not pretend to
greet it. Instead I'll
wake to the great horns

that pull behind the church,
walk to Railroad Ave and
meet myself for lunch.


Computerized again!

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