THE LAST HAPPINESS

the sky’s red scintilla

breeds the last generation of sighs

my brown eyes literally 

dripping light

as I stand on the porch

a glass figure

elongated by shadow

the soft drum of my boots

finding the one broken plank

the fear that if I move

that could be a step too far

and how dark it will get

remains to be seen

at least

if a man is blind enough

A BOY EARLY IN THE PROCESS

What are the stars anyhow

but a pack of wolves

with shiny but mismatched eyes.

And paint a red nose on the moon

and it’s the clown

who terrifies me.

The clouds are the puffing 

of giant three-pack-a-day smokers.

And that’s not distant thunder

but catarrh on a grand scale.

I just don’t get reality.

I need to make it something else.

My parents are frogs,

burping in the next room.

The wheeze of a gate

is the wheeze of everything but.

And the airplane overhead 

is a hawk of steel.

The car driving by

is a leopard on the prowl.

People say I have too much imagination.

But it’s objects, other people, who are at fault.

They just aren’t fully about themselves.

They leave too much room for me.