Affection
Oh, it was all only
some small thing—
a little crack
in the shale heart
into which
the river flowed.
Connection
Planes lifting, buffeted
in the vast plumes and billows of air
I sometimes think I see
what Van Gogh painted,
that untameable whirl
I stand, stretch—
feel the forest of my body
become trees, each atom
wild and disparate
congregated, earthbound
if only by habit.
Salve
Here, the ounce of quiet
I daily dole out to myself.
In this
I’m a practiced pharmacist,
the most skilled doctor.
A soporific stupor,
the laxness of muscle
and a softening of bone.
Forget a medicine
for melancholy, who needs it?
Ounce after ounce
piling up like soft snow. |
Submission Name: Variety
