Dear Richard

There are still Thursdays
and poems
and me.
Sometimes we collide.

Apnea

Whatever you've come here to get,
forget it. The muses sleep and dream
of bygone lines, of dusty words,
and of the men who chased them.
Ink drops, smears, dries on the page
while you hold your breath.

Trophies

You tell me
I once appreciated
the taste of wild meat--

that I never curled my nose
away from venison, rabbit,
pheasant or squirrel,

but all I remember is rotting

fish skulls nailed to a tree,
bluebottle flies buzzing
near buckets of legless frogs,
piles of bony rodent feet,
and the stench of wet
feathers and blood.

You tell me
I once appreciated
the taste of wild meat,

and I know you must miss
that bright-eyed girl--

the tiny child who begged
"More rat, Daddy. More rat!"
always smiled and giggled
as you filled her plate.

Time Twist (a paradelle)

I am the audience who listens and laughs.
I am the audience who listens and laughs.
I am the clown who visits your dreams.
I am the clown who visits your dreams.

Who listens and laughs? The clown, I am.
Who visits the audience? I am your dreams.
Hell is a question that's not what it seems.
Hell is a question that's not what it seems.

Up is a downer that huffs and puffs.
Up is a downer that huffs and puffs.
It seems Hell huffs and puffs. That is a downer.
Up? That's a question. Not what is.

Time is a number. A fish hook, it twists.
Time is a number. A fish hook, it twists.
Sleep is a tunnel. Like death, it looms.
Sleep is a tunnel. Like death, it looms.

A fish is a hook. It looms like sleep.
Death is a number. It tunnel-twists time.
The clown, I am, who huffs and puffs dreams.
I am your question that's not, it seems.

A fish is a sleep number who visits Hell.
The audience laughs like that is a downer.
Death is a hook. It looms up a tunnel.
Time, it listens and twists what is.


***The paradelle form is a parody of the villanelle. It was created by Billy Collins.