Poetry

There is this sunny place where I imagine him.
A park on a hill whose grass wants to turn
Into dust, & would do so if it weren’t

I read the papers and think about hatred:
and the way ideas, especially big ideas,
look more and more like excuses for hatred.

Luis Morone
cuts adrift

sinks flies
flickers out

It thrashes in the oaks and soughs in the elms.
Catches on innocence and soon dismantles that.
Sends children bewildered into life. Childhood

It’s a sunny weekday in May
and I have had a bowl of beef stew
and a cold bottle of beer on the brick patio