Bankrupt

You wager the world would be no poorer 
Had it no poetry, though five will get you ten 

You’ll never get rich staking your life on it. 

Natural Selection

Seed, what on earth’s got into you? 

There you go rooting and taking off 
In the most ridiculous 

Of surroundings—say jammed 
Between some blooming sheer- 

Rock face or surfacing through 
A sea of noxious black 

Asphalt—never where 
I so lovingly sow you,

Like this nursery bed here. 
You know what? 

I think I’ll stop being so 
Goddamn caring— 

From now on, it’s every man 
For himself, like it or not. 

Shovel Leaning against a Graveyard Wall

After the cleansing downpour, 
I like to think the muddied pool 
Left in the scoop of the shovel 
Reflects on a clear blue sky, 
There in the sweet by-and-by— 

Where a spade is always a spade, 
No matter how 
Many times it’s been buried 
By upright citizens 
Covering up one more lie. 

Wounded in the Process

Nothing too insignificant— 
How even 

This minute sliver 
Working it- 

Self out, means 
To heal. 

Good Reads

The raucous bumblebee 
Makes such a rambunctious entrance, 

Buzzes round the cloistered 
Book-lined study, lights on 
A few select tomes, falls 
Silent before each one before 
Making its exit 

A high-keyed little masterpiece 
Of buzzing eloquence.