Immaculate Conception

Not what you would think but

Poems as pure,
Crystalline

As the snow
That’s driven us

To perfection.

Supposition

What does it mean,
To grope? To an inquisitor,

I suppose it must
Mean to find yourself
Feeling uncertainty when
It happens

You find yourself fumbling
At the end of a rope.

Fountain of Youth

Word is out
Autumn will run

Well into winter,
Spring not far behind.

Careless

YOUR MISSION, SHOULD YOU DECIDE TO ACCEPT IT,
REQUIRES YOU TO DESCRIBE CAREFULLY
IN FIFTEEN WORDS OR LESS
THE PITIFUL STATE OF AMERICAN POETRY

Who cares if care is required
To enrich poetry, pity

The poor slob who cares.

Invasion of the Slug People

You know

They’ve finally taken over
The world

When we no longer
Have the time

To shovel the slime
We’ve left behind.