The Ninth

No ode here, joying
onions to liver and vice
to versa.
Certainly, Schiller had
his apples (sans Ludwig’s
black flags, of course).
The phone rings: Why
the hell did you park
your car so close to mine.
Christ, can’t you see
how the snow is coming
New Orleans Review


Aurelia, let me in, for your god’s sake.
It’s me, the Cherman boy, the one
who used to play with the brown
porcelain monks: Pepper and Salt,
the one whom Father Feldmeier
gave his old Everlast boxing gloves to,
the one who pulled Renata’s black
pigtails during Communion Class, whose first
Confession was murder: the murdering
of ants on the back porch, who flew
weeping to the grey Pontiac, one Spring
because the flower-crowned Virgin
was too beautiful.
Offen, bitte! I am leaf-soaked, tossed,
and fear, I shall never again see
that miracle of snow falling
through those honey-locusts of May.
Tante Aurelia, mach schnell!
It’s me, the boy from Chermany.

No Clever Simile for Salt

Forget its throw
in the skillet with
potatoes and onions.
The damage goes back to
the second of two grandmothers,
who ghosted above
Polish snow.
And oczywiscie, on the other side
some um-pah-pah of tuba or accordion
valtz gone awry in the genesmislink
after mistake.
Happy copy in the camp of
suicides. Plummeters all from
laughable heights, each, in tum,
imagining a precision swan.
New Orleans Review


After Matsuo Basho
Okay then—a Harvest
Moon and I am a worm
boring through round
night light, my chestnut,
So to speak.

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