The Old Man Who Leans on a Stick

They call those stars down south.
You can see them that way.
You can see them hunt, or dance,

Sway like birds on a branch.
You’re free to see the stars
As tales, tales that please you,

How you please. Ah, you know—
It’s just your kin, your folks,
Who tell you what to do.

The stars don’t care. The stars
Love you. Sure, sure, they do.
Love what you’ve made them, too.

This Was the Day for an End to the World

The cliffs were woad,
Then pink, then gold.
Day touched the tips,
Then slipped down low.

The grass wore frost.
The air was cold—
At least for flesh
That begs for robes

And feeds on trust.
Not one wave passed
That changed the ways
Light showed up dust.

So much weak tea,
God’s slop-rhymed mess.
Let the sounds be.
They’re tired of us.