I flake away, counting years
In the brews I make. Doughed in
at 65, mashed for an age
fermenting forever, testing gravities
Sampling my creations and finding
each wanting
The Brewmaster’s Art
Genre: Poetry
Dung Beetle
Polaris for dead reckoning,
but with nothing to draw a dotted line from—
wouldn’t you know they trample each other,
go in circles, disoriented like drunks?
How to Ride a Unicycle
You won’t get anywhere. Float,
learn space between you and the road:
one foot falling, then the other.
Catch up with yourself.
Citizen A and Citizen Z’s Assignation
I will, some afternoon,
build you a small trojan horse
in the shape of a microfinanced
sculptural flourish for your
indoor infinity waterfall
Late Harvest
After the fruit I can pick easily
And savor in season; after gleaning
Everything overripe I’ve overlooked
Hidden among dense leaves;
SPLEEN: AFTER BAUDELAIRE
The great bell groans, smokey log, falsetto,
Duets with grandfather clock struck by flu:
Afterplay is the name of the game and must
Inherited from some dropsical old maid,
Where darling knave of hearts and the queen of spades
Rake over affairs since come to dust.