Our fear of slippery slopes
kills joy in its sleep,
ties God’s hands behind our backs,
rises from Satan’s coffee to
curl about his face as he stands
in his bathrobe watching a black
dawn loom above the trees.
I cradled him, fresh from a morning
surveying his kingdom, into my face;
smelled winter beneath his fur,
flowerbeds behind his collar.
Wondered at those who collect these
haughty envoys, risking the ire
of municipal codes and threadbare
trope of crippling loneliness
to surround themselves with smells of
life, now, beyond their grasp.
in the beginning was the Word;
it has/will been/be, ever since/more.
some (words) are more
ant than others, without
which the story is lost or
some ARE, some DO,
while some ARE/DO both while
the others, though,
gild and embellish
are clutter and noise,
worthy of a roughshod draft;
do they know if they
ARE or DO or do they
for the sharp, red pen?