The Headache
A miniature roofer climbed
to the side of my head.
Ladder against skin,
and poised with hammer,
so uncool, so unbeautiful,
that his work is like a drumbeat
that it could unhinge a painting.
The steady chant is like music,
and I am good practice for his art,
and my eyes are crossed,
for there is no morphine.
When I drop a glass,
it is like a window shattering,
and it’s double the explosion.
Hologram
Two points of view:
A garden and a holocaust.
There’s the dead-end cul-de-sacs
that rhyme with a maze of Crop Circles,
and the ills of ringworm to wash it down.
The hoes of the farmers are melting,
and the tractors are being driven backward.
We throw phantom ears of corn into our baskets.
A woman is painting a landscape:
Juices of apple trees, ripe,
and ladies passing with dangling earrings.
Love is free, without price or barter,
and Christmases are plentiful with kindling,
and families latch on like a circle.
Two points of view:
A royal flush and a metal-wreck.