Poem

occupant-starved
margin

bent

on whoever
you are


Karaoke

A microphone
full of dying batteries
is pressing—

a kind of
crushing of
your money's

worth.
Something
altogether ugly.


If we make it through December

Vessels
drift.

Letters
alight.

In the hemlock,
I pale,

unpacked
as a foal.

Were snow
to animate

the smallest
gray creature—

give it legs
and plot—

I would
think

to turn
to you, and

in returning,
arc.


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