The Saint

I don’t remember old lovers, don’t
remember cigarettes I’ve smoked,
don’t remember the clever lines
that hover between hatred and a joke.

And I lie between my teeth, I lie
before breakfast, lunch, snacks,
I lie down on the tracks, summon
trains, spill salt, step on cracks.

I hear the beautiful world talk dirty,
potty mouth pearls, see girls lift
their skirts, flirt with money, success.
I’ve run out of things to bless.

You Haul

I moved into a new poem
because the old
one stunk of you. I couldn’t sleep
in the metaphor,
it sagged. It was tiny,
like looking through
the large end of a telescope
towards great
things. It was like eating
kittens and getting
caught. The shame. Like
the pure shame of bed
wetting. God, I’m sick
of what you want.
Ill at ease must
please the bon vivant.