Digging for Worms

he's building her a pink house
with a garden--here's rosemary
for remembrance, for

Old Mother Hubbard peering into the
larder, stocked full now, with
sugar and spices and boxes upon

boxes of comestibles large and small,
the palate-pleasers cooked over
quickflames while the sun penetrates

the gauzy curtains of the pink house,
skirtingboard cream-colored, a band of
blue where the wall meets ceiling, the

mirrors reflecting the walls, many spined,
close written titles, ink-printed, so many words,
words, words,

and quiet floors, soft-padded with floral
knots, hand tied and cut,

the dawn chorus wakes us up and
we are sung to sleep in the
dark blue

we have had our milk and bread,
we are good children, both of us

Collateral Damage

who are the sound and
who are the rotten?

the limbs pile up like driftwood,
salt-sealed the wounds, red the
common color to all, the demarcation
line of the tearing, flesh from flesh

you have it to eat, cannibal, on
your polished plates, thrice times daily

and still he says:
dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,
and this he believes, walking in
the Pennsylvania hills close-skirted
by trees

and still the lozenge-boxes, shinyhard,
wrapped in striped paper, come home to us,
these sad sarcophagi in which
warriors sleep

as the rubber wheel of the meds cart
catches against a broken tile, the
tiny droppings in the corner spell out:
whither shall we go from here?

He Speaks Upon His Lines

Look kindly upon these verses short and long
Restrain the blue pencil in your hand
Who, but the poet, should write his song,
The letters, breaks, and lines make the land
Of this verse, while undivided remaining
Transmitted from author eyes to page
A message needing no retraining,
No remoulding, its wish only to engage
Readers eyes as was meant to be read
The sense and rhythm still unbroken
Untouched by other hands, the thread
Of thought just as it was spoken
So, kind editor, read these words true and fair
And print his letters as written if you dare!