Alas! [Poem]
“Poor Yorick” my ass. I got off easy.
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Sometimes I think I am just the way
dishes get transported up and down stairs–
like, having no legs, they invented me
Sometimes I think I am just the way
dishes get transported up and down stairs–
like, having no legs, they invented me
like a balloon, the globe escaped
and drifted into the star-pricked dark
or perhaps it was I, filled with
the good air of hopefulness,
tied tightly by a mother’s hand.
A new poem about poetic inheritance, in honour of my friend and mentor Marvin Bell
I don’t really want to do anything–
not peep through the small doors
at mice living out unimaginative lives
or run a finger over the beaded skin
of a rattling snake, coaxing venom.