HUMMUM

There are always ghosts in a bath house
They flirt in the shadows, complain
That the moon no longer loves them,
Drink tea they brew from dead leaves
And slantwise words. That one there --
So old it remembers my father as he was
Before he was born -- is no longer certain
Whether it was a cat before or after
Its great success on the vaudeville stage.

REPORT

From the sky’s fifth quarter comes the wind
Houses shiver; the trees pretend indifference
Though the dead leaves turn green
And swirl up to their former stations.
Senior dogs are gathering in alleys,

Trying to plan a measured response;
The cats frantically barricade the streets
With old crones' bones and blank gravestones
And mortared confessions no one owns.
On its hook in his shop the butcher's apron
Sings gay and gaudy lies about him
A poem comes to my hand; all beak and talons
And crafty eyes turned cold with rage.

THIS. ALSO, AT NO EXTRA COST, THAT.

Ever since William Blake praised them

The Tigers of Wrath have been insufferable

And sneer at the Horses of Instruction.

From his nutshell, the King of Infinite Space,

Urges moderation upon them:

“Where are the Velociraptors of Rage?

Who now fears the Protozoa of Vexation?”

At the rain the dead leaves jeer
“What need have we of you

Now that we're perfect, brown and sere?”