The Artist
published at gloomcupboard.com in 2007

He is such an artist,
his voice the chariot skimming the lake
and I’m thinking things…
which makes it all less than I thought.
In what’s left of a forest in the back of this house
there are birds whose calls
slip in and out of weeping ghosts,
and I figure it’s Michigan, anything could have happened here.

What day was it, that I forgot,
and missed the switch
that explains the tired voice I find myself with.
A rose I cleaned,
meant to inspire someone’s day,
left a mark on me that would make my newly deaf calico cat
jealous.
And it stung not when I received it, but when I noticed it hours later,
and that makes me wonder…
which part do I deserve.