They could not bury them fast enough,
the rain thick and slippery, the mud a river,
and in the morning’s blue sky, a whip of cloud,
pink haze, great green vines hugging short trees to strangle
Not long ago, a noted academic
Told me, in reference
To my misuse of the word “polemic”
In an abysmal book review sentence,,,
A day in the seasonless house.
For each grey, a flower
. . .
I don’t know why I’m out here
On worn-down tires and pitted
Chrome, red and yellow sparks
Flying in little comets from