Winter
God shaves some of the highest meadows green
To contrast with his sky-blue, cloud-shot eyes
When He gets tired of over-seeing
Cow-paths our boots metaphorize.
Three-hundred sixty-five, twenty-four seven,
Spotlight-tanned, or billion-billion-candle-lit,
We think each shitty step is legible from heaven—
That’s how we handle it.
The Shaft
You play, and tease, and laugh, my friends—that’s as it must be!
But my soul feels—alas!—its desperate needs.
Better People
Better people like to pretend that better people
Have insides and outsides, as in that handy game—
With the two-fisted church, the finger steeple—
But inside and outside are the same the same the same the same.
Hypocritical Poets
Cold hypocrites, speak not of the Gods!
You think! You do not believe in Helios,
Nor the Thunderer, nor Poseidon!
The earth is dead! No one will thank her now!
Ach, my Gods! You still adorn their songs,
But all the soul’s gone out of your names,
And when they need a really big word
They use “Mother Nature.”