Poetry

Spring 2009

In the orchard of death
the green angel
in whom I do not believe
fans green wings,

and the dead are loosed,
a cirrus snowfall
shaken down.
If I have an insect's heart,

let me have the rest.
Drumbody.
Formic scent
of the slow haul

for home. Buzzed
insistence glinting
above a smashed pear.