Smoke
Smoke
The phantasmal filigrees sprout
from the ripple of ribbons below —
escaping from the fire contained in a pebble
— dissolving in a ceiling of fog
An attempt to ride death
like the edge of a wave —
dripping spray but still full above water
— disappointingly just back towards sand
The spirit tendrils climb quickly
in a ladder of eager worms —
steadied by breaths of heavy habit
— disappearing in a haze of itself
Self-Test
Self-Test
The answers
to half the questions
are at the back of the book.
Don’t ask why
only half.
That answer’s not in there,
and neither is the question;
why begets why like blood.
You can try another book
in another class,
but eventually you’ll
choose to make do
or just start writing
yourself.
As it slants onto the cabin porch
moonlight sears the trees,
casts the valley in cold-powder hues
as God’s best lamp shines down
and looks for lost children
in the dark.
We’re here! So close!
So very close.
Down the valley
the yipping begins
right before the moos
and the bovine shriek
of our neighbor
losing another head
to the pack,
all of them shouting
at the sky.
God’s lamp shines steadily,
on the porch and the whole pale valley,
and blood pooling somewhere
like a shadow.
The pack, aglow along their backs,
coarse fur on white fire,
lap up their forgiveness
too closely,
nipping each other in haste.
