Grandfather Clock

Walking around like this
a good book in my hands
the dead letter office
E.D.’s envelope poems
my organs—mostly—intact
we are all political now
says a man with a conscience—
not my president—
ties for things like this
fruit stands in the rain
enlarged hearts


Ruse

You would make up some story
each of us would come close
to repeating
between headlines—
an ocean of lies—really—
close to out of luck
for those of us
left standing


Deepwater Horizon

It’s easy to see
what stands between us—
me and the orange sun—
for who owns the sun
who owns the sea
well—in a sense BP
does—the company
I mean country


A Poet Visits

as glamorous
as rain—right
as rain—you think
in all the different
ways—where are
my socks—where
is that gloss I used
to wear