Search for the Roots of the Fog

It’s a phrase from a tale,
A good tale, a prose tale,
But it might as well be

That one line from the poem
That tells you, This is what
A poem should be—this is

What a poem does, if not
Bought for praise, built for love—
Go in search of its roots,

The way a mind goes off
In search of what will be
Next, the way a hound goes

Off on a scent—off and
Back, and then off, then back,
As fog slips from the trees.

Would Be Blue

In small things, too, there’s the sting
Of loss, the tang of the new—

The hour in the stars, the faint
Hint of smoke from far-off fires.

Live to Fall

Near your end, you’ll chose,
If you get the choice,
If your end’s not swift,
From a crash, a gun,
If you’re not gone first.

Since you have no choice,
You may not get one,
But you’ve got no choice
If you do get one—
You’ll have to take it.

If you’re still there, near
The end of your breath
And your use of us,
Then you’ll have to chose,
To let go of you

And let go of us
Or hang on and howl,
Like the wolves you heard
Once in a bright dawn,
Who made you sit up

By their choice to howl
At the sun. The sun!
You should howl at night!
You told them, through us,
As if they chose voice.