Those in charge
were rolling out a scroll of hot tar
over the meadow in New York:
it was, after all, March.
They heard the hum of the electric trees
drawing current from the ground.
A public hanging snapped open.
Hangman and crowd immune
in the mittens of their laughter.
Spring would cover Central Park
with the stickers from his suitcase.
The worms in their mouths
made a strong rope.
Song for My Wife
I have come home
leaving my voice in machines
the evening unravels into dark.
I can still see the breasts
of the woman chasing her hat
in the wind and wonder
will they be there in my eyes still
when you open the door.
A car horn sticks
in the distance
raises the small artillery of dogs.