The Die Cutter
Decides to take its time
like stubbing out a cigarette
that refuses to be extinguished,
or applying lipstick just so
for that subtle layered
don’t-kiss-me-away look.
The Die Cutter could be
executing braille for all we care,
long as the job gets done,
the client is pleased,
and I didn’t think about you
until now.
A Gypsy Moth Found on The Last Five Miles to Grace
How the hell
did you get in here?
My door has been shut
for days.
Nothing out or in.
Who said you could die here?
I guess permissions are silly,
as simple eyes
no longer differentiate
dark from light.
I’m not going to argue
with wings art deco erect
abandoned hexagonal lenses.
You look massive
in the blackwhite sky
on top of the book cover.
Your legs sticky anchors
among wispy clouds.
Even in death
you stand up (s
l
a
n
t
e
d).
Go ahead.
Stay as long as you like.
Men Who Call Their Wives
Often do it from my phone
at the South Strip Terminal.
Usually it rings into voicemail.
I sit with them as best I can.
They are always trying to get to
or get back to…
Men are so easily lost.
Long after I’ve left,
the wives call back looking.
By that time I might be in a bar
myself misplaced.
I have someone.
She’s not my wife (yet)
but I should call her.
How beautiful it is
when they answer.