Starving the Oxen

There is less
you say
and more teethmarks embedded
into your lips
than there ever were.


It keeps you quiet
you say
but I feel the weight in your heart
the rustic pulley
with feeble oldman's bones,
and the tension strikes a chord:
B minor?
No. Something more
Isolated.
Depressingly jaw-clenching.
E. half-diminished.

I remember
a great river, and it broke
into four heads:
Pishon Gihon Tigris Euphrates
and they would flow back to Eden,
if they could.
But you can seldom turn back
when you've been dammed from the mouth.
An Act of God is
required, but not included.

A muzzle is nothing to be honored
you said
little words
are saved for the dead
"hope" and "wait" change voices
and sprout crowns from their thorny heads.

I can do nothing with words
I said
but lie in bed. and pray
(will tears
water you
the slightest?)
and turn back
and know—
I will be heard.
An Act of God is
in motion.

A Jean Jacket Morning.

I want to be old
sitting in a coffee house
early
on a warm. rainy. morning.
working on crosswords
and
writing silly little poems in my head
that will never meet the lines of paper
across from you,
reading comic strips with
blossoming eyes
that pollinate staccato laughs
half-smiles that curl
like your hair in summer rain.

I inquire, and you ignore.
A nine-letter word for unconditional love.
A nine-letter word for
giving someone all of your attention just to witness her blessings.
Hmm, "blossoming eyes"
would make a good line.
Perfect for your look.


"Garfield ate all of John's lasagna and fell asleep in the dish,"
and you let me in.

"A five-letter word for 'a song of joy.'"