Status Updates From Garbage

; we rise several times

in a night to walk about; we rise in the morning
to a crusty world headed nowhere, doorless:

our chests burn with anxiety and a river of
anguish defines rapids and straits in the pit of

our stomachs: how can we intercede and not
interfere: how can our love move more surroundingly,

“I've discovered
at sixty-three that the other thing I wished of

poetry, that it prevent death, has kept a
little strange, that I have not got my feet out
of the entanglements of misapplication and out
into a clear space to go;”