Hellebore
Lord, I am all
stretched out to quality,
but I fear I wear
a ring of hellebore
on my brow, as I am
a daughterish son
and my torment is that
I fed the flowers
to a circle of friends
not knowing their sudden
life-changing effect—
so a boy poisons his dog
and Hamlet his mother
and all beings
of whatever kind
afterwards walk trampled
as if crushing with
their own bare hands
(things are not familiar!
things are not familiar!)
the love they were
saving for a more
opportune moment
such as this
The Way of Books
My chickens call to my chickens
Your chickens call to my chickens
We grow old and die,
with never a need for a visit
