Rhode Island Route 138

A stone fence, a field.
The headboard (as Katey
would say,) the headboard.
An old twist on taxidermy
(your twisted animals
are caught forever
in their favorite poses --
a smug impala; a screaming
possum.) They'll spend forever
not walking around upstairs.

Tong me out of the cold fire,
grandma, the night's terrors
have made me tired.
No yachts will sail
the small bay today;
my throat hurts;
our common dream
of a big body of water
of our own will feed us
through another morning
of another winter, quiet
so far.

New review of Never Cry Woof by Scott Glassman!