6º FAHRENHEIT
Isis rolls through the Federation Ring
beyond Saturn.
You know the ring
precariously balanced
these past 10 billion years?
That ring,
that cracked fingernail
if you’re in a cane rocker
on a peeling whitewashed porch
beneath the dripping pecan trees of Athens, Georgia.
Well, Isis found a stream
near the University of Georgia,
a stream that sometimes freezes solid—
Isis approached the whole affair
disguised as a gas furnace
lapping her iguana blue tongue
around the thighs
of coal miners,
poets,
and Beethoven perfecting his Ninth.
And on that very night in Athens, Georgia,
Isis pulled a quilt
over the antlers
of 6º Fahrenheit
blistering her unlocked doors
of solitude.
WINE TASTING
This ’99 Reserve—
who’d you reserve this for,
Humpty Dumpty?
Perhaps you thought you’d catch me napping?
Dazing when I should be focusing closer attention
on your Proprietor’s Reserve Cabernet?
Well, the ruse is up!
So, don’t go waving banners or declaring holidays
for this anemic vintage.
Rumor has it that only the most cultivated spirits
can produce the exquisite amnesia required
by desperate poets like you and me.
Again, forget waving sentimental banners or letting
school out early for this anemic vintage.
This ’99 Reserve—
who’d you reserve this for,
Humpty Dumpty?
POEM ABOUT AN HOURGLASS
If only I could rise
from this velvet couch
and say what hasn’t been said
for millennia.
If only I could recall
the name of Gerard de Nerval’s
lobster
waddling the Champs-Élysées.
If only I could
fling my atoms
into perfect quantum orbit.
Then I might say that
words come too easily.
But you’d know better.
Just ask Marlon Brando
for a glimpse
into the future;
now that Marlon’s dead,
I’m dying to know.
Alas, if only destiny
had the sultry hips
of an hourglass.
