Hierophany

    Poor chap, that tramp —
his beauty
       confiscated
         by filth;

  Left to pray mindless
    ly in the gutter,
      in arrears
         to the street;

At church for his tea-and-two-slices
   his offering but
           a burned-up blade
     of grass and
             still he prayed;

  O, heaven, my galoshes
    are glummed,
   my ears beaten
             by duns;

  O, keep me,
      even though —

This entry posted by J Rand : 22:45

   Live now and repent.
Consolation is a cup of coffee,
   tease me tomorrow.

This entry posted by J Rand : 22:00

Tomato plants
      Are vines.

Make no mistake—
      In fall they leave

An acrid yellow resin
      On your plucking,
            Prying hands.

They’re slowly ripening fruit
      Leaving their seed to the ground.

You’re only interfering.

This entry posted by J Rand : 14:35