The Passing Traffic

From the frozen-gutter pulpit

Outside the chase-road Church

Of the Old Blow-Down Birch

The animated, grizzled-curate crow

Rants and roars at all

The passing traffic,

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Portrait of the Poet

As night’s new choreographed clouds

Roll in and over me

I’m sitting, again,

Whole but alone again

In borrowed skin

Beneath a tree that struggles

To fit beneath the sky.

Between a warm metal heron and

A broken kitchen chair leg

I’m stabbing craziness onto

Poorly seen, second use paper

By stuttering light of gutter candles

With stubborn fingers and a

Well-chewed crayon stub.

Not everything has changed.

Not everything needs to.