Devil's Advocate

Well, I’ll tell you this 
Much has to be 
Said before we can 
Even begin 
To explore the depths 

Of our depravity— 
For a starter, let’s ask 
Ourselves just how 
Strong the rope is 
That’s taking us down. 

Muse On A Deathless Grecian Memento

Not hard enough 
And clearly not 

Indestructible this 
Heart you burnt 

To its foundations 
And then ground 

To ashes—give it back 
To me resurrected 

Forever in an urn. 

Abandoned Spoils Of War

The few stone houses 
Of the village still 

Standing, up 
To their waists 

In stinging nettles, 
Doorways eternally wide- 

Open, windows that were 
Once their eyes one 

By one plucked out, home now 
To mythic hoot owls mooting over 

The specter of tatterdemalion 
Orphans playing nonstop 

War on wind buffeted marble 
Threshing floors. 

Absconding With The Goods

No real damage done 
And no caveat, save that 

Of coming clean 

With the poem, the spoils 
Intact. 

"And Beautiful Times We Had"*

—*Sappho, from poem #94 


We were young and not 
Yet old enough to know 

When black wolves start 
Descending 

The white mountain 
Slopes in early spring, 

It’s too late to lie 
In wait, low 

In the valley still 
Acting like sheep.