Letter to an Aging Poet

for Jim








I've turned through your years
as no doubt you book-marked
through those of your own
aging poets.

In fewer than five years, I've read you to bed for forty-five.

Yet for suffering with you, I'm none the wiser.
Doomed, I'll make the same mistakes and
come to classify them otherwise.

Moving Boxes

A spot in some future tense,
I'll fix for you and fill
with art for which we've
not paid enough,
chairs from cold
countries, a loose
board, and a light
that shines on
applauding bones.

abridged suite

laying down my arms
on wax, someone
will find your
fingerprints