1.

I've written the same poem

Two days in a row–

First, in my sleep,

And then

It soaked and 

Fell through the thin 

Paper floor into the wakeful state.

In the distance 

You can hear the silence,

But up close

There's the constant clatter of existence

And the din and holler

Of the poem being born.

I've written the same poem 

Two days in a row now,

As I feel the bass throb 

On my leg,

As I drive down the interstate,

75 mph cruise control perfection,

The hum of the tires 

Drowning out the beat.

2.

The painter of pastorals

Learned his fine motor skills

As a child

Carving up

Pieces of meat;

His father, a butcher.

3.

Foreboding music plays,

Tiptoeing through the background,

Making just enough noise to tighten the 

Nerves,

Making them ready for

That which comes for them.

The darkness, likewise, 

Makes its magic,

Jagged alchemy rendering sleep nothing but

A restless

Daydream

That takes its time but

Never arrives.

4.

I've written the same poem

Two days in a row now,

And one night.

The difference is not discernible 

To the naked eye, the naked skin, the 

Flaring nostrils, the pricked ears, the

Questioning tongue. The difference is 

Discernible only to that part of the mind

That is able to distinguish 

The passing of the fine smooth particles 

Of time 

As they move into the body

Like sharp hooks

That snag and pull

Once encountering bones.

5.

Outside the window, a 

Single crow moves like a measuring stick in the

Shadowless dusk, spreading confusion 

With its vagaries. 

If you count it all out, 

Every tiny tick-tock, it seems so small.

So very, very small

Like a single spot of blood,

Or the Bible verse:

Jesus wept.

6.

All along the dawn

The clock face danced.

Slight and ill-dressed, 

It jitterbugged alone

As if expecting the sun 

To drop into its beggar's cup

Like a shiny coin.

Don't think for a moment that 

Any light will escape through the 

Dense curtain of clouds

Drawn tightly in and

You're opening other places

Too private to mention

Is there really something other-else?

Until I'm ready to fall in

Face-first and writhing and

What else is there to say?

The dusk was fat with sighs

And twitched pinkly wet

And floundered fatigued 

Beneath bright sheets.

This alone spoke like a quiet savior.

This alone was mercy enough.