Thursday, May 9, 2013


Grasshoppers glitch over the lawns
Bearing golf-pencils in their jaws.

It is so cold I apply mustard to the sky
And have nightmares of trench-mouth unlimbed.

Like a pink bottle of liquid exfoliant
The hemlocks take off their wigs of burnt grass.

What's dignified?
Under the couch, a scrap of fish.

No comments:

Post a Comment