Category: Poetry and Other Writing

When boys tread upon anthills it is Gol­go­tha
all over again, the peo­ple run about like
ants who have sold their souls for a bite of apple.

When a dairy­maid churns milk into sweet but­ter
Pros­er­pine is tum­bled into the land of death.
Win­ter and vir­gin­i­ty are not quite oppo­sites.

Before I knew poet­ry was writ­ten — not lived,
my bea­gle and I would chase grasshop­pers for hours.
Now each day is a new Labor of Her­a­cles.

After I first shaved, I hid in the clos­et.
I gave the razor blood sac­ri­fice in my fear.
I had no one to guide my shak­ing hands.

When Prometheus gave men knowl­edge of fire,
they prompt­ly for­got its wider con­se­quences.
A squir­rel often for­gets where it hides the acorn.

Poems can­not be writ­ten by the inno­cent.
Cel­lar doors open only into the sky­line.
Squir­rels and ants burn like men.