Two Poems
A. Minetta Gould

Dealing Pompeii

These jeans are as old as I myself am; crooked & tropical, these jeans blow holes through weather. The shadow of this town is gray like Michigan is growing broken down & broken up by the sunlight. The rain has stayed for days. Washing away the only road out of Pompeii, MI; I myself tear & fade.

Division of Labor

Your mist

around the foot of
my bed is barking

this morning. O, the turn
and turn and turn.

A somber shuffle.

All our subjects; all our verbs.
All our loose hairs have slowed.

O, these split ends

and ending splits.
Tandem bicycle:

yours. Bicameralism: yours.

All the stylus': mine.

The cash of un-
wounded herbs:

mine. Your

mist around the foot of
my bed is gaining air.

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