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But more akin to bioluminescenceAs performed by fireflies, late on summer nightsAfter everyone has fallen asleep.If you please, though, not those horrible creaturesOf the deep, dark ocean, who use their eerie lightsTo attract hapless prey, whom they capture and gnashWith sharp teeth. No offense, guys, but that’s aPathetic way to go about your life. It’s not so much an old flameBut more akin to an old spice—Not the to

If you want to justify not getting out of bedthis morning or yesterday and also give hopeto people who use pebbles and shells for money, start a winery in your backyard. Call it The FaintingGoat and make pinot noir that’s available only for barter. First obstacle: your backyard  is a narrow strip of concrete and broken homebrewgrowlers, overturned tomato crates, gnawed chicken  bones, crumpled To-

His spoon rises sparkingat my near peripheral. Dessert: dainty custard, vanilla, whip-creamed & coveredin cookie crumbles. He doesn’t see the flames as I do, attuned to the accidental. Each blaze passes bristly lips,snuffs. How does fire taste? I glance down at the centerpiece candle.It looks delicious, candied. At my side, the convex mirrorstreaks, a willow-o’-wisp. I’m a fool to believe in dragon kisses,though

Invites the occasional guest To sit by the coffee table and Page through academic journals That are too boring to read Properly. The visitors to my office Are few and far between And generally they camp out elsewhere Or conduct their business quickly. No one tarries in reception For very long. So sometimes I imagine that I will arrive to find You on the couch. Waiting for me, patiently. I greet you warmly And then we

IV. My lover once confessed to me, “I am a terrible man.” I asked him why he thought so. “I have all these faults and weaknesses, That I am forced to face too often. I make my excuses, And then feel miserable For the rest of the day.” That was half a lifetime ago. Now, I wonder if I had misheard a homonym. Maybe he was, or should have been, Comparing himself to Tissue paper. V. For Halloween,

I. I felt guilty, so I pulled Into the Redemption Center. But all they wanted were My bottles and cans. II. Now that fall has arrived in New England, My husband is wearing his black leather jacket With the matching cowboy hat That he picked up at a flea market On our vacation to Florida. He says that he looks a little like Burt Reynolds in Smokey and the Bandit. I tell him, just once, “No. You don’t.̶

So I am here at this extremely busy And inconvenient international airport, Plenty early for my departure to Mundanetown, U.S.A, To visit family, But lo and behold And similar expressions The departure down the corridor Is nonstop to Buenos Aires, Where we went on our honeymoon All those years ago, before the Divorce, of Course. So I meander over, And find a lounge decked out in Vibrant colors, a South American airli

At the trendy southern tip of the High Line In a converted warehouse Without stage and chairs, and modest sets We patrons of the theater mill about the floor As spotlights shine on the actors Playing brief scenes of passion, anger, fear, Grief That end when the lights dim out; The actors also confront us From time to time The next day On the drive home My wife searches online and finds A restaurant called The Little

Encroaching climbing, Over canyons miniscule. Uneven surface, Leafy Vestibule. Crawl encircle, Erect lumber. Cascading upwards, Upon bird’s slumber. Nurturing nature, Fulfilling desire. Working up and out, Of sand-mud mire.