Change the Climate

Summer Murder

frozen in drains, the stench reaches
      your cacti veins; your touch drops the dead
under our feet to fester: the sewers are
      often the first place you go,
clogged from the dirt summer can't soften;
      under the hell of beautiful weather,
kneeling heat hides in the hair of the river

olfactory senses on overload, shine-blind
      buoyed by disaster's kick up your backside,
falling and crashing off a cliff edge inside;
      instead you close your eyes and hide
feigning a standing pose, losing tenure
      the first thing you seek is denial;
all common sense in repose resting against
      cold torches for the dead who pass through
nocturnal glass, where every window is an
      hourglass of quicksand losing you to a
dark mirror in reflection to your other:

do we murder summer
in winter? but the wide
earth had lost nothing but a fog in dream

From the collection: "The Story of Living Things" >>

Burn

lying beneath the olive tree
listening to Joan Baez
sing about Bobby
and a breeze blows
my eyes are closed
but it picks up
and the voice grows
suddenly in me
and I'm glad you're dead
and far away from me
I'm glad for the shade
for the sun burns me
when the trees will shed
their leaves for eternity

From the collection: "A Torch For All the Dead" >>

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