The Prettiest Prose

I can’t complain. Hercules
Was metaphysic. The heart
Of an angel is isosceles. But
Seriously. I’m doing alright.

The day shrunk into the
City edges. You know what
I mean. For a second it is
The deep sea. What pinks.
What finery.

The graffiti isn’t in a hurry
To go. The house
Is old anyway. And the lawn
Thank goodness is dandelion
Messy.

Just the blue and the purple-blue shapes that spin and collect the stuff the pushes down on time.

A rake of leaves
Without a handle
Without a lawn

The picture you tore and sold as a souvenir

Of a hallow moon

Arms pining for the old gods

The Room

I like what you did with the room.

What did you do away with?

I thought so.

Have feet summered

Into autumn shoes?

I brought you some icicles.

It was no trouble. The stars are cheap

Tufts of nuclear fusion.

But I would recommend a parade.

There by the window.

But you are much too quiet

For ghosts.

Companion

A demolition
Derby of flowers
On the surrounding
Hills.

All of this is me: hordes
Of daffodils, cloud
Shoulders, cloud arms, and cloud legs stretch
Vivaciously in me.

A bludgeon of sweetness
In the summers grass.

A cement bock of seagulls
Ripens like an apple.

Cremate my brain,
Feed it to the rain,
Till only a tantrum of dreams companions me.