I cannot write tragic poetry any more.

It is as though I were in a forest

—or so I imagine, my acquaintance with forests being so slight—

And I thought it was a Belle-Dame-Sans-Merci sort of place

But then the sun shone somewhere and— lo and behold!

It's all winking lights and accommodating shadows after all.

Well, perhaps not that sunny. The ground is squishy and

There are glass shards dotting the slope where people

Used the place in accord with how dark it had seemed,

Making it darker. I sigh in irony, which itself is overdone.

If we deal in malobservations and miscommunications—

Which we do—we are likely to find that trees are best kept

To a certain height, age, density; their gatherings limited

To five or more in a public place, their branches trimmed,

Undergrowth regularly cleared, all in the interest that 

People will use them right. 

And of course, with an arrogance I can fairly appropriate to our lot,

We—that is to say, I—draw analogies where every damn thing stands for human.

at home

I drag my feet over doing when at home. I only 

lap up happy endings, sometimes knit, pee frequently;

By eight or so, I'm berating myself on another day wasted.

What else? I spend time talking, a bit a day.

My impatience held in a vice-like grip, I try explain;

When it escapes, I am savage or escape.

I've no wisdom to defend this with.

Family, they itch in your bones—

Try to be aloof, or strategize, or just let them be,

But it still matters enough to fight.

Or to lie, to evade the non-negotiable.

Because they are not just the Opposition.

I know why they resist, I know why I must, should, will listen,

I know why the whole damn thing's so bloody hard.

They know too, and so we're every day angrier,

Always shouting, never leaving,

Never thinking violence without thinking regret.

—Don't get me wrong: we make each other miserable.

But in a quicksand/together-forever sort of way.