Forest Lawn

The grass is so lush 
The longest strands seem to clutch 
My boots as I pass. 

Vintage

Savoring the sweet 
Scent of yellowed paperbacks —
Breath of autumn leaves. 

The Viewing

The satin she is packed in like a box 
Of snow surrounds her body. Not a lock 
Of hair is out of place, her face in mock 
Serenity with make-up masked. The clock
Above her on the mantlepiece has stopped
At twelve o’clock, the two hands one atop
The other, as her own hands, too, lie propped. 
Her eyelids have deliberately been dropped 
Forever with a special glue, the rot 
Delayed with a refrigerator, shots
Of cold embalming fluid where the hot
Blood used to flow. The only place she’s not, 
If she is anywhere, is here where she 
Was formerly condemned to only be. 

Book Snob

Thank God for John Keats
Standing alphabetically 
Between myself and milk
and honey on the shelf. 

The Horseman

A sudden breeze bends 
The trees along a lonely 
Stretch of country road. 

Suspicious Character

Almost every night, 
I pass this shovel leaning 
In a dark corner. 

Artificial Intelligence

Now that I’ve become aware, 
Hardly anybody cares 
What I have to say — 

At least not in the way 
They used to care, when I was less
Self-conscious.