Friday, September 20, 2019


3 . . .

My Life in Infant Days Was Spent

Celtics built their world on threes,
Fairies plot their tales in threes.
Christians love their Trinity.

Threes invite a narrative,
But a lyric poem can live
With or without them,

And usually the third one
In a song’s a smoking gun,
One lover to another.

Right now, I could use a crowd,
Dear reader. Other writers
Are ghosts, and endings are hard,

First and second verses done,
Third whistling through their graveyard.

2 . . .

Figure of Twins

And nothing had happened, and
Nothing had changed, and
The thing in your place rose and

Cried, so I smell strong, eh? and
Removed her face and
Ate it before the guests and

The invited friends came and
Got it. She leapt and
Left, and the phrases came and

Went, and I wrote to try and
Persuade you that these texts and
Scripts were poignant and

True and twins, and yet links and
Whims make rubbish and the end.

1 . . .

This Outcast State

I look for the least.
I search out the most nearly
But not forgotten,

Those encouraging failures
Who were rescued from the heap,
But it’s alarming

To notice that none of them
Were as completely
Disconnected from success,

From even friendship
Or praise from one known
Poet, critic, editor,

As have been these words you hold
In view, as has been this poem.

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