Tuesday, July 15, 2014


My poems seem to change in the summer
Ignoring me even more than usual.
Come winter, Raskalnikov and Little Nell

Will be after me to write something for them
Gloomy, deep; poems you can hit with a mallet
And leave no crack, no chip, no dent.

(You there – trying to recall where you left
Your mallet – put the thought aside.)

The hot weather wants airy poems, with holes
For the wind to blow through, and hinges
So they can be put away when it starts raining.

I assume Little Nell and Raskalnikov
Are on vacation now; talking on some beach
About  Daniel Quilp and Sonia Marmeladov.

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