Dead morning full of wind.
It’s enough to make you think
Mother Earth’s a real phony baloney.
My past lives hanging in the closet
From nooses of shadow and spider web.
Or so I would believe,
If I ever got around to getting dressed.
The landscape is choked by robins
Whose red undercarriages
Set the ice on fire devilishly.
And you, my love, up to read the obits.
Our crib is next-door to the graveyard,
And the sliding glass reflects everything
To the scale of a blind kid’s dollhouse mirror.
Widows leave whiskey flasks
And love letters at the stones of war vets,
Hearses from black-and-white comedies
Are rigged with faulty locks, and a ditch digger
In his casket slides back down the hill.
Even a priest, deadpan, reading from his favorite book,
Gets hot around the collar.
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