Thursday

I roll through the day like a trapezoid.

Wednesday

I army crawl

through halls,

passing below

the suppressive
nature

of the workday.

6:30

A poem wakes up and looks for someone to write him,

but no one is there, so he goes back to sleep.

What Writing Used to Be

It used to be
I'd grab a pencil,
and bring the tip
against my forehead.

I'd pause
for just a moment,
and slam my head
against the table.

With twist and turns,
the boring would begin.
And I'd watch
liquid brain drip out.

Prostration

Isabelle is playing possum
in the fields again,
pretending to be dead
as the day goes by.

As grass grows
and bug swarm
we kick dirt at her
and laugh.

Old Town

It must be spring--
Through open windows,
the roar of trucks rolling by.

Bookmark

I am the corner
of a page
folded over.

I drip down the leg
of my favorite chair
and drown in a pool
of boredom.

The Breadmaker

Bread crumbs shed

on the kitchen floor.

Through dusty waves

of whole wheat pollen,

we watch the bread tree grow.

She is carrots and beets,

and parsnips bent

over wooden spoons,

swells of sauvignon

drowning

dripping

dried out

on the floor.