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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
benevolence.
And if the door seems
pliant enough,
and if, putting on my shoes,
well-fitting, darkly,
and if, the way they do,
strange
quiet things keep
falling,
and opaquely,
then strength to put down
my soft,
illegible accumulations,
and walk out into
this
liquidation.
Contents Unknown
Every ten years or so, a box
of commemorative plates,
a box of antique plates,
a box softly implodes into
mulch.
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.
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