To husband the dogs of heaven
I suggest you lift a beer or two
for her that I needed
You dont buy that? Fine, reasons are cheap
Because harvestmen have eight legs, I took her
Because mathematics is a pure art
Because white elk glance off into the trees
I vanquished the unconquerable
as you would wash a sock; get over it
Im not unsympathetic, note
Queen Annes lace grows back in summer
and what was of her, though she crumbles in the palm
remains in My hair, the belling of the dogs of earth
The shocking idiocy of poems about death
beards shut doors with cabbage and ground meat
What next? The anger of aliens from space,
good domestic habits for escaping cholera
Offerings of fruit are mildly better,
woven by teenagers, written in their hair
What the salon once called auspicious
now decorates graves at cold gas stations
