Two Poems
Allister MacMartin

Soon, This.

Soon, incomparably
sexy and alone,
just let me
burn these letters first.

I'm cold and I'm getting out.

This blanket of smug

And if the door seems
pliant enough,

and if, putting on my shoes,
well-fitting, darkly,

and if, the way they do,
quiet things keep

and opaquely,

then strength to put down
my soft,
illegible accumulations,

and walk out into



Contents Unknown

Every ten years or so, a box
of commemorative plates,
a box of antique plates,
a box softly implodes into

Another string of lights, bought
coiled, gets uncoiled, got tangled. Cowardly
was one way to spend winter.

The weather staged
a hostile take-over,
snowing its stupid pointless snow,

like a stay of execution,
your stupid blue eyes,
a crummy box of letters.

The dog content to lap clean
the contents of the pine tree stand.