Men

Combined with gun-dogs,
educated and growling,
we look crazy as we sit on
leaden hands.
This is America and
it’s
cloudy.
The postal service
is overladen with
jars of coloured gas.
Can you ever
wake from a man-made dream?
Puckered lips and strutting hips
count cash with each swing,
spin and roll. But the
rapid-fire
questioning
never
stops.

Of Mice

Barn-storming; they anger
for a lighted tip and roll
with the thunder: so bright.

Rattling wood and vibrating
for good, the spirits dance with
each convulsion.

Yellowed and slippy
when the doors let in air
and smoke and
we breathe in the pollen with haste.

Pieces of feeling
gathered in a net:
we are all that will ever matter.