March Doesn't Mind Me Staring at Walls

These cherubic hieroglyphs suspended,
no closer to Heaven than to the
continent where their color
was conceived

A hundred times I stuck my pen
in that font, a hundred more
some cloud erased the
inkpot

But, look

The tenants of two new eyes
fall from open windows,
and into mine; knocked
over by a warm breeze

Ash Wednesday in Saint Paul, Before the Snow Falls Again

Below the eaves,
in fossil tones,
limp history performs
her alibi.

I count the
bones of wasted spit;
garnish on an empty plate.

I have greater reasons for
not committing.