Bag of Anything

lies, propaganda, doggerel

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Crow’s no harbinger:
too busy with his own shit
to foreshadow yours.

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Come, oh volunteers:
Grass, thistle, dandelion—
An easy garden!

I read your note once
And then again —
Alas, still the same words!

the endless susurrus of tires
strove with us through the night’s great room
we trusted to its purpose: home

The sun rose early
But the rain was there before
And shattered the light.

In such brief compass
What can be said worth saying?
The world’s what it is.

Fly sang his death song
All afternoon, mourning sky
Beyond his reaching.