Poetry

what color is your collar Boss
is your backbone sore from bending over
when you clap your hand against your thigh
does a little cloud of dust fly off

I am tired of this place & want to take
a slow train to the moon—

Just jump the rails out past the pale
peeling walls of this here room.

At first only fog lifting off
the snow and snow
     sifting through it,

I showed up for jury duty—
turns out the one on trial was me.

Ah, these nights of January
when I sit recreating our moments
in my mind and I meet you

Land snails the size of hockey pucks
slime a shimmer along craggy roots. A mantis
wipes its eyes with her forelegs like she’s taking

Dangling his legs outside the plane in wind
that seems about to whip him in half at the hips,
but won’t, having split

Me & the Devil are rivals
for God’s affection.

 A short ride in the van, then the eight of us 
   there in the heat—white shirtsleeves sticking,
the women’s gloves off—fanning our faces.

Sin, thy name is this
wait—this place—
a long ways from Here
to There, from where